


February 14th

by Trifoilum



Series: Texting Robert [12]
Category: Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator
Genre: Afternoons on Bed, Also a few ramblings, Cake, Communication, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gallows Humor, Hand Jobs, Light Angst, M/M, Mary & Damien in the background, Mat/Rosa in the background, POV Second Person, Scent Kink, Slice of Life, Sweat, Texting, There is cake in the second chapter, Valentine's Day Fluff, Vegamarch in the background, Vegamarch in the foreground, Victorian Attitudes, also in chapter 4, for now, in chapter 4, in chapter 6
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-05-02 03:04:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 39,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14535288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trifoilum/pseuds/Trifoilum
Summary: "Robert, doyouwant to do anything for Valentine's Day?"





	1. Loss and Longing

**Author's Note:**

> So...This began as a chapter in [Robert, You, and Food](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12313524/chapters/31717212), with the idea being the second chapter will be food-related.
> 
> Except the more I write (and edit, and rewrite, and reformat), the less it relates to food. If you read the link; you will see that even the first chapter gets extended and rewrote.   
> ....The whole thing becomes so massive.
> 
> It felt dishonest to edit the chapter so I'm putting the updated rerelease in a different entry a.k.a this one.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was an honor you weren’t sure you deserved to have.  
> No longer were you pulled by the sea, sailing on the turbulent waves that was a crush. Instead the pull changed into that of a home; relaxed, easy, as simple as falling into bed and remaining there. Life wasn’t smooth sailing but they were somehow uncomplicated, which was odd considering the complicated man that was Robert Small.  
> It had been a while since the last time you felt every single day had been a celebration.  
> Ergo, you didn’t need Valentine’s Day— _Except he might._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with the tag, this fic will have a bit of a scent kink going on. It should have been revealed in A Weekend Together but I hadn't continued that at all and besides there should be more than enough hints sprinkled all over the series. 
> 
> It will get more kinky in the later chapters. :|

"Lemme ask this straight, buddy; got anything to do in February 14th?" 

On the sixth day of February, you were sprawling on the sofa and savoring the sight of Robert, who had been sitting on the floor of his messy living room for hours as he worked on the basswood in his hands. On the other side of the room Betsy was burrowed in her small bed, clutching a soft blanket Amanda bought in Christmas. With no one noticing, you felt like a spy and everything felt like a naughty little mission.

Which was to say, the abrupt question made you temporarily at loss for words.

Especially due to the topic. It had been a while since you thought of Valentine’s Day as a special day and you said as much. “Not really. If you're talking about Valentine's Day, these days I'm more excited for the fifteenth."

What you didn’t say was the way your heart started beating fast in anticipation of an ambush.

What you didn’t say was the way your mind stopped working before memories gave way to a storm of loss and longing.

For all the work you had done to accept Alex’s death, it forever changed your heart and this was one part of it.

Luckily, Robert wasn’t looking at you; he didn’t even look away from his work. All he gave was a noncommittal grunt before he continued chipping away the basswood with the whittling knife you gave him last December.

You placed down your smartphone, the decoy you were pretending to use, and tilted your head for emphasis.

“Is something wrong?”

“Just a thought,” he muttered, and you felt a bit of shame when the dread inside your body dissipated. Better to enjoy the present, then.

“Okay,” you said lightly, carefully shifting on his sofa. Not only were sudden interruptions dangerous with a knife around, the whittler himself didn’t seem to appreciate background noises the way you did.

Of course it was no coincidence you had the best angle on the older man.

Watching Robert whittling was always a delight. The muscles were a plus, yes; how could it not when you saw his strong arms covered only by a form-fitting shirt, flexing and tensing as he dragged his knife ever so purposefully. How easy it was to imagine those arms manhandling you as he had his way, taking all you offered and unloading his in return. And yet your attention was completely stolen by the littlest details. Like how his eyebrows would knit themselves together when he was deep in work. The way his Adam’s apple would bob inside his throat. The little, automatic noises he made as his broad shoulders hunched, all sorts of  _tsks_ and  _hmms_ and curse-free grunts. How calm he looked compared to a year ago.

So quiet and rhythmic were the scraping that Betsy hadn't woken up from her sleep. 

The whole process was poetry in motion, subtle yet powerful, deliberate yet effortless, no less than a breathtaking combination between mind and muscle. Every single pain plaguing the older man always dissolved during that short window, leaving nothing but the wood and  _him;_ a man of focus and passion so intense it burned. 

You were filled with yearning, similar from more than a year ago yet very different at the same time.

Robert was still a glorious sight; a hunger that would never be satiated. A whiff of his musk never failed to dry your throat, urging to strip all barriers between you and its direct source and _revel_. And a simple smirk from him stole your breath as effectively as it would in your first meeting. It was too much, so sigh, very swoon.

And yet, there were all these little revelations, seemingly trivial until one day the significance hits you like an anvil.

For example, watching Robert now, his tongue would stick out as he worked and his face would crunch according to the delicateness of what he had to carve. When things were going smoothly his lips would curve up in childlike satisfaction and when things were not, he would pout as he fumed. None of this was consciously done and yet here you are, sitting right in front of him. Without realizing any of it you were given all these implicit consent, a permission to witness him in such unguarded state.

It was an honor you weren’t sure you deserved to have.

No longer were you pulled by the sea, sailing on the turbulent waves that was a crush. Instead the pull changed into that of a home; relaxed, easy, as simple as falling into bed and remaining there. Life wasn’t smooth sailing but they were somehow uncomplicated, which was odd considering the complicated man that was Robert Small.

It had been a while since the last time you felt every single day had been a celebration.

Ergo, you didn’t need Valentine’s Day— _Except he might._

"Robert, do  _you_  want to do anything for Valentine's Day?" you gasped.

The sigh Robert gave was long and tortured. " _No."_ Penetrating eyes were back to form, gauging, waiting, observing, and the intensity hit you straight on the chest. "But I don't know if you do. I don't know if you did.”

Those words—and the idea of _remembering_ , really—made you flinch and sat up. “It doesn’t really matter,” you shushed, crossing your arms and legs in pure reflex, noting how dramatic you must look but unable to prevent it.

From the abandoned hallways where the ghost of Alex’s memories lingered, a memory struck with the ruthlessness of a thousand cuts:

_Happiness and anticipation contaminated the dirty subway; or perhaps you were the virus, the alien substance tainting this celebration of love with your grief. It was all you carried and it was all you had for months after Alex’s death, and right now there was no one important enough to put the mask of a coping spouse here. The idea of moving on would remained elusive for months afterwards; at that time you were still trying to avoid having every single cell freeze with a primal fear whenever you were inside a moving car._

_Two more stations, then a thirty-minute walk before you reached the cemetery. Of course it was when you faced the tombstone that you realized this was pointless. Alex was no longer **here** or **there** or **anywhere**. Your spouse was nowhere and everywhere at the same time, present in the painful absence beside you, present in Amanda’s tears and the silence and—_

“It doesn’t really matter,” you muttered. "We don't have to do anything if you don’t want to,” you said, offering a smile that in retrospect was a bit half-hearted.

That was definitely the wrong answer because when you glanced upwards, you saw that Robert’s glare never faded, never moved away. In fact you could see his lips subtly curling downward— _in annoyance_ , you mistakenly feared. Two moments passed before you realized it was something much rarer: concern. The carbon steel knife was placed down on the cloth-protected floor along with the rest of the set and his current work, an imposing lump of basswood that was halfway in taking its final form. With a few casual pats, the older man swept the wood chips on his pants before standing up.

"Look, buddy, I’m not asking you to _forget_.”

“I’m not forgetting,” you whined, trying to make yourself even smaller. It was hard to agree with his words but something within it demanded you to. _Why are you so afraid_?

Robert’s face became so sour you might as well told him you wanted to roast Betsy in an open fire. He let a jagged, frustrated groan, one hand raised to ruffle his own hair. “ _You_  don't have to put yourself down just because, buddy. Honestly I don’t know what you used to do—I don’t _care_ —but if you want anything, if you don’t want anything, tell me.”

It was a tad aggressive and melodramatic. Your subconscious, already on guard, began loading some petty defenses to sling when your mind recognized how familiar his words were. Yours.

With a jolt, all the gears in your head abruptly halted.

Breaking your silence, Robert slowly approached the sofa you were sprawled on and sat near the edge, careful the way a lurking wolf is careful. With everything you had said and done, it was easy for him to mistake hesitation as restraint; to see your actions as another case of you putting his wants above yours. More insights kept bubbling and bubbling.

“Am I pushing you too far?” he asked, eyes filled with conflict. Gently, one of his hand moved over yours, clasping it tight when you did not move away. You did not want to.

Instead you leaned closer, letting a bit of yourself crumble because you understood by now it would be alright to be vulnerable, to be wrong, to hurt. “No, but God I’m so stupid,” you said with a wry laugh.

One arm pulled you closer to the older man and then his lips were pressed firmly on your forehead. “I’ve been there, y’know,” said Robert quietly, “Remembering hurts and forgetting hurts even more; better to just drink it all away. You’re the one dragging me out from there.”

“Hell is paved on good intentions, and it is one hell of a superhighway,” you murmured lightly.  
  
“Nah, don’t think so.” Looking at Robert, his lips were now curving in a smile of his own, faint yet unhidden as his hand traced a line on your jaw. Up close, a few streaks of gray hair were peeking out around his temples and beard. “Grief’s way complicated, man. It’s not something you can just shoo away with one good cry. Ain’t even really done with mine.”

The sight was comforting, and you closed your eyes, letting one of his hands settled your head on his shoulder.

“I don’t want to cry and I don’t want to forget Alex. And yet—“ You stopped and, despite your best efforts, were unable to string out the next words. “When I said everything was in the past, it’s because the past was different. I never thought much about Valentine’s Day; never cared much. But Alex just liked celebration: Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, Valentine…. we even celebrated Black Day when we read about it despite not being single or Korean, all for a bowl of  _jajangmyeon_.”

At the end, you tried to give a rueful smile and ended up stretching your facial muscle in weird directions. Thankfully Robert didn’t say anything, just slowly moving his hand across the back of your head soothingly. Maybe it was his hand or maybe it was something else, but that ghost you feared didn’t appear this time. A distant acceptance filled its haunted space instead; as cold and sterile as an operating theatre.

Your repulsion towards the pungency, the contrast between its stickiness and savory taste, your laughter upon seeing each other's blackened teeth—the memories had long stopped being painful.

They were forevermore part of the past, a snapshot of happiness regardless of what happened afterwards.

 _Especially_ because of what happened afterwards.

Memories of Alex should have never become ghosts.

“I can suspect what you were thinking; if something I said or did ever suggested I’m not celebrating Valentine's solely for your sake then that is not the case now and I apologize, Robert,” you finished with an exhale. “I’m just…weak.”

“No you’re not.” Your lover pressed his lips once again, dried and rough and gentle on your forehead. “Too careful, maybe. Like I’m gonna break if you said one wrong thing.”

“I am?” you asked, realizing that at certain points you had looked away without meaning to.

Looking back at his face, you tried searching for any hint of anger, of distaste, of judgment—yet there was only a tinge of sadness on his face, like he expected you to say those words. “You’re always speaking so carefully whenever we have a difficult talk.”

“And I guess you don’t like it,” you suggested with a murmur.

“I do. A damn good thing you’re doing, make no mistake. _Adult_ ,” said Robert unflinchingly, never straying from your eyes. “But not when you’re dealing with it alone. Not when I got no say in what’s best for myself, for you, for us.”

Those words seeped in like a sunlight passing through a dark room, displacing any urge to defend yourself. Instead your head felt refreshed, like a good cry without the pain.

You let your body drop back on the sofa again, tugging Robert’s hand a few times. He scooted closer and closer until the older man was hovering above you. A deep, masculine sweetness masked your senses, mingling really well with the fabric softener, menthol bodywash, and the basswood he had been whittling. They merged with his body, grounding in its weight and calming in its warmth, and reassured you that everything would be alright.

His smile was tender and the pleasant warmth spreading inside you told an entirely different story than what you expected.

Every touch,

Every whisper,

Every kiss,

Every single inch of honesty he’d been giving you,

All of them were little revelations on hallowed grounds and they felt relaxed, easy; as simple as falling into bed and remaining there. They were not odd. They were the direct results of the complicated man that was Robert Small: less of an enigma, more of a joint effort.

A man of focus and passion so intense it burned.

Slowly, your lover lowered himself until he was pressing down on you, trapping your head inbetween his two elbows. You could feel the tension leaking from his body, breathe the same air, see his smile growing as he pressed his cold forehead onto yours. “You alright over there?” asked Robert.

Good question. Your body felt a bit sluggish no thanks to the winter, but it was not the kind of lethargy that made you want to curl in bed. And your head was surprisingly free from the psychosomatic pain, stinging migraines and stomach cramps you tend to feel after arguments and fights.

Maybe those were the reasons why you were so careful in the first place.

“Yeah,” you finally said, and the relief was so immediate your entire body sank into the sofa with an exhale. “Except one thing. Do I really have that bad of a martyr complex?”

Laughter would have followed if a tender hand hadn’t interrupted it by curling at the back of your head, moving it inch by inch. Soft breaths against your neck, his cheek, and you tilted your head to meet your lips with his. You could feel your entire body trembling as it invited Robert close, sighing at the touch of lips.

Everything started to settle down—not the same, no, never the same—and when you parted away, your lover was flashing a wide grin that was both hungry and ecstatic at the same time.

“Water under the bridge?” he asked, bearing only a hint of nervousness in his voice.

“Come on, it was nothing,” you groaned, holding both his jaw and feeling his rough stubble. By now you were already used to the occasional beard burn, and that too was a little celebration on its own. “Otherwise I do have another apology to make.”

“Good, ‘cause it seems I’ve tripped a landmine and all,” huffed Robert, holding your surprisingly tense face like he was trying to massage them. 

“It’s bound to happen,” you said firmly, closing the case. “Still, I promise to talk to you in the future, especially when something’s important like Thanksgiving and Christmas.”

“Not February 14th?”

“Eh.” You gave a little shrug. “I really could live without it. What about you?” Robert gave a pissed-off groan usually reserved for social gatherings and, at one time, Enya. That probably said more than words could ever do, and you grinned. “Then forcing either of us to celebrate Valentine's Day defeats the purpose, don’t you think? Again, Robert, it wasn't the fourteenth I’m thinking about right now.”

Robert gave your shoulder a little squeeze. His curious look was practically toothless compared to a few moments ago. "So you said. What’s going on the fifteenth?"

You gave his forehead a small peck and practically swooned. "Post-Valentine discount, Mr. Small. Even saved a few recipes to try."

There was a long pause before the older man finally laughed; a gravelly sound making you chuckle at first, then rolling your eyes when it never stopped. "Seriously.  _Seriously?_   _Seri-fucking-ous-ly?_ " He asked, louder with each question.

"Well, you seem to find it a joke. Maybe I’ll just spend this Valentine together with everything I’m going to make,” you scoffed, using a tone that could be described as mock-offended before sticking a tongue like Amanda used to do. “ _Alone_.”

"Oooooh, someone's angry," drawled Robert, adding a smirk that burned straight across your chest. "Can I do anything to, y'know, apologize?"

" _How about no_ ,” you humphed with a slight pressure on the last ‘o’. But the soft smile on your lips probably took any bite it could possess.

Robert leaned closer.

“Not even with a date? Say, around next week? The middle of February sounds good, y’know. Has a _sense of occasion_ around it.”

You stopped, and waited, and no, the ghost didn’t come; the blooming feeling in your chest must have been something else entirely because you were sure your entire face was burning.

“But you just said you loathed it.”

“Who’s to say I’m forced to, this year?” Robert grinned, leaned even closer, and his words started to drawl in that charmingly annoying way. “When greedy capitalists and clueless magazines are trying to shove it to my throat, sure. But I can always appreciate a good sense of timing, y’know.”

Emphasizing his point, his hips started grinding against yours, the organ inside a half-chub ready to grow even bigger. Without moving much, his lips were ghosting over yours and smiling against it, dry and rough and so ridiculously tempting.

You gasped, yet easy as it was to close your distance, you were too busy giggling.

At first it was soft, blooming until your entire body shook and your head started to hurt.

Robert slightly backed away. “O..kay. Is there somethin’ I should know or did I accidentally break your mind? ‘cause I’m not feeling exactly encouraged over here, buddy,” he mumbled, _half-pouting_ , and it was so—ridiculous. Yes, ridiculous was the right word; between everything that happened and didn’t happen, between everything you lost, you still had, and you regained. New memories blurred with old ones, not overlapping, just—gluing the shattered fragments with gold, making them more brilliant, more beautiful because of the hurt.

By all that is holy and good, what did you do to deserve this?

“Yeah,” you managed to wheezed. “There is. I love you. So much.”

Gracelessly, you pulled him to give the kiss you had meant to give.

You kissed like a hungry man eating in a banquet. At first it was a soft smooch, growing into a wet, open-mouthed kiss before it broke into dozen little kisses all over his face, taking everything and taking too much as you breathed a deep whiff of Robert. An unstoppable urge started shivering inside, from the base of your spine to every inch of your skin, buzzing inside your head until you were clinging wantonly on his broad shoulders. You groaned in a low voice and inhaled deeply.

And deeper,

And even deeper, needing to feel Robert’s skin warm against you, to hear his voice ragged in lust, to _soak_ in him as you slid your lips against his again for seconds and thirds, slick and needy.

“Okay,” breathed your lover once the two of you needed some air. "Just wanting to make sure you get it, I’m up for all sorts of thing you have in mind. Very,  _very_  up, if you know what I mean." 

 _Banter, banter, banter. Nope, no words. Funny how he keeps doing that._ On the side of his neck was a slight bit of discoloration, a kiss mark, your mark, and while you didn’t exactly remember its origin date, it had begun to fade and that was unforgiveable.

With unbridled hunger, you angled your head. A sloppy sound of sucking followed by a flick of a tongue, and Robert’s voice broke into a ragged moan.

“Oh c’mere, you thirsty fucker,” growled Robert, pulling your hair and moaned into your mouth. Your tongues were pressed together as his hands sneaked underneath the worn-out sweater, pulling them up to your chest before rough fingers hovered around your torso.

You returned the gesture and yanked his hair, pulling it just enough to make him grunt. He started pressing his body even deeper, chuckling as you returned the gesture and —

"Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark!"

....Betsy woke up.  

Robert's groan was louder than yours for so many reasons, one of which was that she immediately dashed across the spot he had been sitting on, scattering wood chips everywhere and almost knocking his work off. 

Betsy restlessly hopped left and right, looking at the two of you and panting like she was waiting for something.

His cock was still throbbing inside his jeans as Robert clutched the couch cushion in frustration. "You just ate, girl,” grunted Robert in ragged breaths, brusquely pulling your sweater down before glaring at her.

Bark. "What? No. I just took you out before that.”

A long sequence of barking, followed by a whine. "Well of course you can't go far. Everywhere's covered with fucking snow for fuck's sake." Then Betsy tilted her head down and Robert’s groan changed its tone from annoyance to guilt. "Oh, don't you give me that face, girl.”

Your lust had begun to fade away, leaving warmth to glow deep in your gut. It made you laugh again, free and light and loud, and you leaned forward for a peck, relishing in your lover’s stubbly jaw. "Don't be a meanie, Robert, take her out again.”

“I blame you for laughing like a madman, y’know. Me and my blue balls,” he groused.

“And I promise the two of you shall get the hero’s welcome when you got home,” you said, tracing a finger on his neck. “But the hero must set off on a journey first, together with his trusty companion.”

You slid a finger to the floor, wagging for Betsy, and when she approached the two of you and licked your fingers, you booped her nose.

“More like a pampered lady and her servant,” breathed Robert. “But at least lemme have this first,” he said before sealing your mouth with a kiss, as firm as it was thorough, as sweet as it was wanting.

It could be said that the kiss tasted as good as the first time if you were corny, but you knew better—it tasted better. It tasted of progress and change. The exquisite ache of longing was nothing compared to this.

Finally, after a moment that was too long for your lungs yet too short for your heart, Robert released his lips and nuzzled your cheeks, whispering straight to your ear with gravelly voice and an earnest tone. “Said it before and I’ll keep saying it again: I love you,” he murmured. With his hands settling above it, your heart drummed frantically against your ribs. The rumble of his voice seeped to your skin like spring, another revelation of how cold survival had been.

Holding his jaw, your fingers started wiping a faint bit of sweat appearing on his face. “I love you too. And…thanks for dealing with me so well.”

Robert snickered. “Buddy, you’re already doing much better at that. Ain’t gonna be here without you and I’ll forever be grateful about that.”

“Hey!” you lightly flicked his forehead. “Give yourself credit for once; I’m just…here.”

“And that’s all I ever need,” Robert wiggled his bare toes around your sock-covered ones, scratching the wool with his too long (and honestly rather disgusting) toenails. “You, with your kindness…even the times when it’s too much. All of this.”

And then he was off, jumping to hold the abandoned dog before she let another whine. Betsy beamed like the gloom never existed in the first place, yipping happily when Robert held her up and squealing when he blew raspberries on her tummy.

“See? It’s a damn guilt trip all right,” claimed the older man dramatically as the dog started peppering him with kisses. Your lover laughed as he happily returned them. “Look at you, girl, where the fuck did you learn this kind of shit?”

“That has Amanda labeled all over it, I tell you what,” you said, smiling fondly at the sight. Robert looked radiant like this, laughing and playing with Betsy under the orange rays of the setting sun. Special, except every single bit of him were special and precious. Your hand reached for your cellphone, hungry for a shot, but the deceptively thin rectangle was nowhere to be found. Why are gadgets these days so easy to slip anyway?

Oh well. More reason to keep watching.

Both dog and man walked quietly, making little sounds until the older man put on his boots, at which point the house was filled with the sound of soft thuds. At least there was an impromptu show as Robert flexed around in his damned tight shirt, abdominal muscles free for you to enjoy until he slipped his trusty jacket.

A lingering kiss pressed on your forehead, held off for a few seconds before the pressure was gone. “Catch ya later, buddy,” said Robert.

The door was opened and closed, and they were gone.

You sat up, ignoring the heat pooling around your groin to look all over your lover’s living room. Even disregarding the scattered wood chips didn’t make the room less messy, what with his DVDs and your books and all the clutter that somehow found its way around. With the energy surplus, perhaps it might be a good idea to clean the room before Robert returned and finished his whittling. You could then resume your naughty little mission again.

Maybe it would end in a happy ending this time.

A bit of Robert’s scent still lingered—perhaps around the room, perhaps around you—and you breathed, chasing the musk, your thoughts turning into a steady current that continued to flow and wash your mind, softening the edges with little everyday gratitude that never stopped piling.

Snapshots of happiness, of you, of Alex, of him; their essence remaining despite the passing of time.

This was more than enough. There was no need to be greedy.

You stood up, stretched your body, and started to clean up the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re: Christmas. Basically it was about gift; Dadsona gave Robert a whittling knife, while Amanda bought Betsy a soft blanket. Also, it was hinted here, but I wrote Dadsona as someone who doesn't really like surprises.
> 
> [Black Day and jajangmyeon](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black_Day_\(South_Korea\))
> 
> Next chapter; Dadsona braves the winter and seeks some wisdom.


	2. Lighthouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, I might need some help. Do you have any ideas for Valentine’s Day?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dadsona gets out and asks advice while doing so.
> 
> Featuring Craig and Brian and Mat!
> 
> That said, this chapter is _tiring._ I wrote and rewrote until last minute, and the way it is right now means the next chapter's draft going to face a major rewrite in itself and...yeah.  
>  I'm pleased with it, but tiring is tiring, and at some point, the frustration becomes an inspiration in itself.   
> For that personal reason, this chapter's also leans more to my own Dadsona. (A sample of which can be seen in [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12313524/chapters/31301880).) So sorry if that doesn't fit your Dadsona.

Some synthetic pop-rap-r&b alchemy was blasting inside this gift store, ranting about loneliness and unresolved grudges towards an absent father figure. It might have been the most genuine thing in this gift store.

In front of you was a whole rack of Valentine cards, some sweet, some vulgar, some sarcastic, all equally manufactured. Different prayers to the same god of profit. Still, you took a picture of the entire rack for future reference, just in case.

Somehow all of these felt perfunctory, like its heart was laying somewhere else in wait. In fact, a stifling sense of obligation haunted the walls and ceilings in the form of cute balloons and paper cupids, like there was a mandate from the upper management to deck the entire place _or else_.

“…I wonder why,” you said to yourself.

Maybe it was the apathetic worker behind the cashier, a tall person who looked like they had better things to do. Their deep red sweater clashed horribly with their long, dyed hair, draping down on half of their head in a soft blue-pink-white-pink-blue gradient.

Maybe it was the messily taped stickers, hearts and bears and doves, or maybe it was the special displays strategically deployed all over the store, showcasing well-made, expensive dolls together with antique-looking trinkets most likely made in China.

Maybe it was all the snow globes and postcards and ceramic mugs bearing Maple Bay in its sun-touched glory, wishing you were there and not here.

Either way, you were  _done_.

“This is exactly why I should have asked him directly, shouldn't I,” you mumbled, checking your phone. The few messages you sent to Robert had yet to be opened:

> **You:** Hey. In case you weren’t actually awake when I woke you up, I’m heading out to town for a while. Do you want anything?
> 
> **You:** Also, for February 14 th….are we doing anything?

A similar message was written on a note form, stamped on his smartphone. If he was willing and able to reply, he would have done so already.

This suggested he was sleeping again and both your aching body and disgruntled heart whined at that thought. Cold and disappointed, they were so ready to admit defeat and go home. How good it must be to return to bed, cuddling your lover inside the warm comfort of your blanket. 

But you couldn’t. 

Shoulders hunched, you opened the door and drew in a trembling breath. The bone-chilling air smelled like ice and every intake of breath made your lungs shivered in discomfort. Despite the layers you have on yourself—thermal undershirt, linen shirt, wool sweater, topped by a thick winter jacket and a kitsch Christmas scarf, not to mention a knitted hat and earmuffs—your face had begun to sting from the cold wind and the pinpricks of snow.

To doubt your intuition is to let helplessness in and it was too soon for that.

 “Alright, here goes.”

The cashier didn’t even bother to look at you when you left.

========

With the vibrant colors covered by white, winter in Maple Bay felt more somber than other places. A couple of shops were closed for the off-season while others mirrored the gift store you just came out from. The streets had some other people but they were all wandering aimlessly, shopping bags in hand, occasionally stopping by to have a leisurely chat with one another.

Everything felt sleepy. _You_ felt sleepy.

It brought memories of last night, after the older man had returned from walking Betsy and finished his whittling, after bodies were still and delightfully spent. His arms were draped all over yours while your legs were entwined over his, keeping the two of you in a comfortable, yet still intimate distance.

Robert had long fallen into the lull of sleep; occasionally he would let a buzzsaw-like snore, keeping the room from falling to complete silence. His features were softened and, as your mind drifted along the ebb and flow of his breathing, your chest tightened as another realization struck you with the force of a truck: things didn’t used to be like that, not at all.

You remembered the first time he lowered his walls. His face used to scrunch and crumple as he slept on top of you, broken and exhausted after crying his heart out. Sometimes he would grunt a painful sound and you could only imagine him struggling, fighting his own demons in the depths of slumber.

Looking at him now made a seed of an idea begin to grow, planting its root deep in your subconscious, getting stronger with each passing second until it bloomed into an urge, a compulsion, everything you could think about.

Your heart started to race like you had been running a marathon and usually, if it was about anything else, you would leap out of the bed, following your intuition like pursuing a lighthouse in complete darkness.

Last night, following that path lead you to pull your lover closer until his body was curling over you. Robert was hairy and heavy, yes, but it was a feeling you wanted to memorize— _no_ , not just memorize, but also to enjoy and protect and nurture for as long as you had the chance.

Now, you read your map, made your plans, and drew an invisible route to search the whole shopping district, walking around a few blocks and seeing too many things that were just enough and therefore, never enough. 

There were quite a lot of restaurants and cafés here, mostly leaning to the modern and trendy. They were practically the only ones prospering at this hour, and the sight of warm people inside gave you a pang of longing. “They actually sound a bit intriguing,” you muttered to yourself, thinking at the various offering they had for Valentine. You took a picture of a modern Pakistani bistro and a new-ish looking place promising authentic Peruvian food for future reference.

A little _chocolatier_ went all out and decorated themselves in pink and red and ribbons and flowers, sparkling in silver and gold and glass and crystals. “So pretty, so very, very wasteful,” you swooned at the boxes showcased in front of the store. “Maybe after Valentine. Definitely after Valentine.”

A skincare shop chose an environmentalist angle and colored their hearts green, promising all-natural, cruelty-free products with recyclable containers. “Yeeeah, no,” you blanched back, remembering the ones collecting dust in your home, the ones Robert hadn’t yet to touch.

A winery offered a Valentine discount and _ha ha ha no_.

Several boutiques, most having their own niche, were putting out big sales that seemed to invite some of the passerby for a bit of window shopping. While holding up a piece of leather jacket long enough to be a coat, you noted that this might have been the idea with the most prospect _and yet_. Hanging it back, you took another picture for future reference.

The street ended in an intersection and you looked down, dashing through an auto parts store. There was a specific sales assistant you would like to avoid, one you had unhelpfully pestered two hours ago.

(“What kind of truck did my boyfriend use? Shit, I can’t remember. American? No, I can’t call him—Not a surprise, it’s a bit complicated, you see. I’m so sorry but do you maybe have any truck catalogs I can look at? No?”)

Standing underneath the traffic lamp, you took a bit of time to adjust the reindeer-patterned scarf around your neck more carefully. Nothing was ever enough and in annoyance, you intentionally cracked a frozen puddle with your feet.

This whole thing was supposed to be quick and simple and yet—

“Okay, no,” you snapped by reflex. Deep breaths— _holy crap it’s cold_. “This is a familiar behavior: because taking the initiative is hard, second-guess everything until the universe implodes and nothing gets done.”

Uncertainty is venomous so you started walking away until you could find a silent spot, at which you started to pace around, biting gloved thumbs, expelling gnawing thoughts with each steps.

“So, I gave Robert a knife for Christmas, so not that. On that vein… anything for Betsy also felt like a copout. Whittling supplies he had bought during the end-of-the-year sale—“

Which reminded you of the mall, surely much warmer than this God-forsaken street—

“Except, two things. First, I’m already here, and second, what else is there that I can’t find here? Which, on _that_ other vein, I would go for online shopping—I really would, except shopping online means browsing their entire catalog and _that is not better at all_.”

You pondered why, and clapped once in a lightbulb moment.

“This is most likely the paradox of choice,” or how an abundance of options exacerbates anxiety, “Which is an understandable matter, no big deal. When capitalism turned everything into a product, everything becomes a potential gift. A cheap trinket possessed an entirely different rationale and market compared to a bespoke gift and while that might be useful—people are varied and complicated—I am not. Talking. About. Anyone."

You pumped your fist for punctuation and, in a burst of lucidity, looked around; no one else was outside. There might be people inside these buildings but _LA LA LA not thinking about that thanks_.

"I am not talking about anyone else but one man, with clearly defined standards of what is worthy and what is good,” you paused, an insight dawning. “….And my problem is a _perceived_ lack of familiarity regarding those standards, which is ultimately something I can solve.”

The thin smartphone almost slipped from your hands as you frantically tapped a message.

“I definitely need to refine my parameters. Now, the best source is almost always the individual in question, but in a case when they were occupied, unavailable, or otherwise sleeping like a rock, getting some third party perspectives could be a worthy alternative.”

So that was exactly what you did.

> **You to Best Bro (** **๑** **>** **ᴗ** **<** **๑** **), Mary Christiansen, Hugo, Damien Bloodmarch, Mat Sella, DAMN YOU BRIAN:** So, I might need some help. Do you have any ideas for Valentine’s Day?

It only took twenty steps for your phone to vibrate several times.

> **Best Bro (** **๑** **>** **ᴗ** **<** **๑** **):** aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
> 
> **Best Bro (** **๑** **>** **ᴗ** **<** **๑** **):** aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
> 
> **Best Bro (** **๑** **>** **ᴗ** **<** **๑** **):** aaaaa
> 
> **Best Bro (** **๑** **>** **ᴗ** **<** **๑** **):** aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
> 
> **You:** Craig, please don't spam
> 
> **Best Bro (** **๑** **>** **ᴗ** **<** **๑** **):** THIS IS NOT SPAM I'M SO EXCITED FOR YOU BRO (≧∀≦)
> 
> **Best Bro (** **๑** **>** **ᴗ** **<** **๑** **):** Just have fun!
> 
> **Best Bro (** **๑** **>** **ᴗ** **<** **๑** **):** I’m sure he’ll like anything you choose to give him
> 
> **You:** But Robert deserve more than just anything
> 
> **Best Bro (** **๑** **>** **ᴗ** **<** **๑** **):** What do you think he deserves, bro?

The question made you pause.

He deserved to be happy. No—Robert deserved to specifically _enjoy_ what you gave him.

For all the differences and all the times either of you fucked up, he visibly tried to respect your boundaries without necessarily bending backwards. He cared without overriding your will, never flinching at your judgments, squeezing himself in your life despite how you weren’t exactly the easiest person around. Without doubt or hesitation he opened up, adapting to your idiosyncrasies while dealing with his own problems.

No matter how great the sex, those were not something one did for fun. This, whatever you ended up giving, was practically the least you could do and it frustrated you to no end how hard it was to accomplish this small of a thing.

If you were with Craig right now all of these would tumble down, quite possibly with unwarranted tears he would accept gladly. Now, however, it would be inconvenient and even more embarrassing to break down alone in the middle of winter.

> **You:** Something worthy of all he did. Heartfelt but also useful. Something he’ll genuinely like that I can reasonably acquire within the short time.
> 
> **Best Bro (** **๑** **>** **ᴗ** **<** **๑** **):** Okay so
> 
> **Best Bro (** **๑** **>** **ᴗ** **<** **๑** **):** Naughty or nice? (｀∀´)Ψ

“Dear God, there _are_ those kind of presents,” you muttered.

> **You:** Try me.
> 
> **Best Bro (** **๑** **>** **ᴗ** **<** **๑** **):** Dog treats and collars!
> 
> **Best Bro (** **๑** **>** **ᴗ** **<** **๑** **):** Vitamins and viagra!
> 
> **Best Bro (** **๑** **>** **ᴗ** **<** **๑** **):** Go make sushi together and put them on your body!
> 
> **You:** Wow. Thematic gifts. So impressed, bro.
> 
> **Best Bro (** **๑** **>** **ᴗ** **<** **๑** **):** Playing Switch on bed and switching on bed!
> 
> **Best Bro (** **๑** **>** **ᴗ** **<** **๑** **):** Massager for his back side and his backside!
> 
> **Best Bro (** **๑** **>** **ᴗ** **<** **๑** **):** A bratwurst and your bratwurst!
> 
> **You:** Okay now those are just dad jokes
> 
> **Best Bro (** **๑** **>** **ᴗ** **<** **๑** **):** I'm sure he'll like it all the same (๑ゝڡ◕๑) ～☆
> 
> **You:** But what if he won’t?
> 
> **Best Bro (** **๑** **>** **ᴗ** **<** **๑** **):** Then try again next year
> 
> **Best Bro (** **๑** **>** **ᴗ** **<** **๑** **):** Or even the next day!

Your head failed to register his words for a few seconds too long.

Just try again. That was—

> **You:** …True

It felt like a sudden tightness inside your throat, followed by a sudden relief as a burden was shrugged from your chest. The seed inside your heart continued growing, filling you with warmth. February 14th is just a date.

> **You:** Thank you, bro. Will try.
> 
> **Best Bro (** **๑** **>** **ᴗ** **<** **๑** **):** GO FOR IT BRO ヽ(＾Д＾)ﾉ☆☆☆☆☆
> 
> **Best Bro (** **๑** **>** **ᴗ** **<** **๑** **):** *dances*
> 
> **You:** Been a while since the last time I saw you dancing. Can’t help imagining it.
> 
> **You:** I think it was… MJ?
> 
> **Best Bro (** **๑** **>** **ᴗ** **<** **๑** **):** BRO
> 
> **You:** Not that?
> 
> **You:** Outkast, then? Macarena?
> 
> **Best Bro (** **๑** **>** **ᴗ** **<** **๑** **): B R O**
> 
> **You:** BEYONCE????
> 
> **Best Bro (** **๑** **>** **ᴗ** **<** **๑** **):** C O M E O N I KNOW WE’RE OLD BUT WE’RE NOT THAT **O L D**
> 
> **Best Bro (** **๑** **>** **ᴗ** **<** **๑** **):** BUT AT LEAST IMAGINE SUPER JUNIOR OR SOMETHING
> 
> **You:** Wait. Super what?
> 
> **Best Bro (** **๑** **>** **ᴗ** **<** **๑** **):** (ʘᗩʘ’)
> 
> **Best Bro (** **๑** **>** **ᴗ** **<** **๑** **):** TIME FOR YOU TO WITNESS THE GLORY OF K-POP BRO
> 
> **You:** I KNOW ABOUT KOREAN FOOD

The constant vibrations from Craig suggested there would be _at least_ twenty videos waiting.

 “…Okay.” Slowly, you stopped walking and looked around to see where you were. “At this point, it is perhaps safe to assume that I am not looking for a gift. Not material, at the very least. That makes things a lot broader, which, _fuck_ , but that does open a whole lot of possibilities. “

Without realizing it, your mind started to relax, the lighthouse getting closer. It continued to wait, beckoning you to come.

And age did hand you patience, if not wisdom.

You were deep in a middle of planning when your cellphone vibrated again.

> **Mat Sella:** From the cafe alone, cakes and a sweet serenading do work well for Valentine, but that is 100% Biased Opinion
> 
> **Mat Sella:** (That said, shameless advertising, if Robert wants cake, we have a special menu!)
> 
> **Mat Sella:** (It’s called Simply Red Velvet, which is actually a little bit of a misnomer. It’s a molten red velvet but old bands represent)
> 
> **Mat Sella:** :cake: :cake:
> 
> **You:** Oh my god. Red velvet _what_
> 
> **Mat Sella:** Molten red velvet haha
> 
> **Mat Sella:** Like molten chocolate cake but—well. Crimson. Scarlet. Vermillion. #FF0000. Actually it might have been maroon in actual color.

The barista proceeded to sent a picture of Carmensita proudly holding a plate of the aforementioned cake. It was cut in the middle, oozing a thick, syrupy chocolate, topped with a dusting of sugar. A drizzle of dark chocolate surrounded the cake in a heart-shaped cage.

> **You:** Holy fuck, Mat. Now –I- want one.
> 
> **Mat Sella:** Thank you :cake:
> 
> **Mat Sella:** Tell me if you’re coming and I’ll save you a plate
> 
> **You:** ~~…I’m still pondering about things but—~~

You checked your inbox. Robert still hadn’t opened the message. And the spirit might still be willing, but damned if your flesh isn’t weak from all the cold and the walking.

> **You:** Oh yeah. I’ll go there. Like, right now.
> 
> **Mat Sella:** I’m waiting!

Closing the window, you plugged your earphones and started playing the first video Craig sent to you. They were not that different from the local pop songs—familiar chords, catchy riffs, computer-augmented—except the difference in language and _every single bit of its visual_.  From the sets to the costumes to these boys’ pretty faces to the complicated dance, they made Boyzone and Backstreet Boys look like clumsy unwashed hicks.

“…I feel old all the sudden,” you said before literally waving that thought away.

On the plus side, they did give you something else to focus on as you took a detour to The Coffee Spoon.

========

A buzz of conversation filled the air with the hustle and bustle of life and they would have been a comfort if not for all the people, not only queuing or sitting and doing their own thing, but standing around the corner like vultures waiting for their prey. On the ground, several charger cables were spreading across the room like tentacles.

It felt weird to see the café this packed without any kind of music playing at the stage.

At the counter, a steaming cup of black coffee filled your nose with a rich and deep aroma and your head absently followed the trail it left after a middle-aged woman took the cup way too soon.

“Enjoy your drink!” said Mat Sella before turning to face you, all smiles and chill. With a practiced ease he leaned forward to glance at your phone on the counter, watching the (currently in silent) video playing on the screen. "Oh, BTS. Craig's really up to date, I see."

“There are so much awesome dancing,” you answered in geeky awe while standing from the other side. “And so much boys. How do you know who is who?”

“Oh yes, that’s Korean pop all right. BTS is actually kind of the average if you can believe it,” replied the barista while brewing another cup of coffee. "If you want, I can recommend a few others. They’ll probably suit your taste more.”

"My taste? What do you think my taste of music is?"

Mat smiled as he adjusted his hoodie’s sleeves, pulling them up and revealing the intricate tattoo on his arm. "An intersection of indie, old man pop, and normcore.”

You squinted and leaned forward. “Is this because I like Enya?”

He kept piling a few cups into stacks.

“It is, isn’t it.” Your eyes narrowed even more.

“She gets to live in a castle and sing for Lord of the Rings, so no judgment from me.” With a bit of clang, one of the stacks was placed near the coffee machine. “Although I must admit that was an impressive argument.”

He was referring on the time you had argued with Robert right here.

"You seem bothered by it?"

When you looked up, Mat was looking back at you.

"I do?” you blurted. “Well—No. I mean, I disagree with Robert, but—" The sound you let out were hanging somewhere between laughter and a snort. "It's not. About Enya. "

 "Is it about what you asked me?"

You awkwardly nodded. "Not something I can't handle, and I'm actually feeling a little bit better, but."

Slowly, the barista nodded back in return, tilting his head and quietly gazing at you.

“But?”

“Er.”

Fidgeting around, your eyes wandered while you tried to compose a proper reply, one free from word vomit.

Nearby, Pablo continued to move around, alternating between commercial blenders and putting pastries into a convection oven. A young girl Amanda's age was stationed at the cashier, flashing her best retail smile at an indecisive old woman who had been humming and hawing at the puntastic menu. The queue seemed to increase from the last time you noticed. 

You had a feeling Mat would have remained here if not for the young employee handing your neighbor a plate of warm brownies, chocolate oozing from inside, to be given to a young, turbaned hipster.

“Er, I probably should join the line?” you stuttered. 

“Okay. I’ll save one plate for you,” said your neighbor with zero amount of teasing.

Then he approached the cashier and you resisted the urge to crawl underground out of embarrassment; or at least from walking away and turning your seasonal hermitage into a full-year one. You knew it wouldn’t be that impossible now. Groceries could be bought online.

_This was worse than buying oregano from Lucien._

_Why._

Begrudgingly, you joined the line, which had reached a dozen or so people, tapping another message to join the rest of those unread.

> **You:** @The Coffee Spoon. Very very crowded. Want anything?

Luckily, fate seemed to spare you no time for freaking out. Following a short vibrate, a notification popped up on your phone screen—Brian.

> **DAMN YOU BRIAN:** Oh wow, it's been a while since I got this question!
> 
> **DAMN YOU BRIAN:** My tested and true method is to give what I can do.
> 
> **DAMN YOU BRIAN:** If you ask me, though, I personally love a personal massage.
> 
> **You:** Easy for you to say, you're talented and good with your hands
> 
> **DAMN YOU BRIAN:** Wow, this must be a serious problem.
> 
> **DAMN YOU BRIAN:** …Are you admitting I'm better than you?

Gripping your cellphone, the competitive spirit within you seemed to take offense with that.

> **You:** NEVER
> 
> **DAMN YOU BRIAN:** Attaboy.
> 
> **DAMN YOU BRIAN:** Don’t give up so fast!
> 
> **DAMN YOU BRIAN:** Anyway , even something as simple as washing dishes and cleaning the house could work LOL
> 
> **You:** …Interesting
> 
> **You:** This sounds deceptively simple.
> 
> **You:** Wait
> 
> **You:** Not to say you’re lying to me or something, no
> 
> **You:** Shit, me and my big mouth
> 
> **DAMN YOU BRIAN:** Naw, it’s nothing!
> 
> **DAMN YOU BRIAN:** It is simple LOL
> 
> **DAMN YOU BRIAN:** But it’s a form of love all the same
> 
> **DAMN YOU BRIAN:** Got more than enough to treat myself so
> 
> **DAMN YOU BRIAN:** I don’t need ~things~ to make me happy
> 
> **You:** …Because it’s the thought that counts?
> 
> **DAMN YOU BRIAN:** More like one’s trash is another’s treasure
> 
> **DAMN YOU BRIAN:** Again, it’s what I can do, I’m good with my hands as you said
> 
> **DAMN YOU BRIAN:** What you can do should be different
> 
> **You:** Yeah, I just realized that myself. But I—I hadn’t thought of doing something as a gift.
> 
> **You:** Okay, suppose this is talking about your case. What if your household is egalitarian?
> 
> **DAMN YOU BRIAN:** Even better!
> 
> **DAMN YOU BRIAN:** Do you know how in the ads the mother always does ALL the cleaning while the father just sits back and watches football or something?
> 
> **DAMN YOU BRIAN:** That’s kinda annoying, right?
> 
> **DAMN YOU BRIAN:** This way I get to help without all the fuss
> 
> **You:** Oh, true
> 
> **You:** It becomes a proper gift, not…..paying your late dues
> 
> **DAMN YOU BRIAN:** Exactly! No “but you haven’t been helping with chores!” or “You’re just too lazy to find a gift! I hate you waah waah”
> 
> **DAMN YOU BRIAN:** Not exactly the good kind of Valentine, that one
> 
> **DAMN YOU BRIAN:** Of course, don’t limit yourself on what I said
> 
> **DAMN YOU BRIAN:** It’d be no fun if you just follow my words LOL
> 
> **You:** Yeah, but you still gave me something to think about.
> 
> **You:** Thanks a lot, Brian. I bow to thee, Lord Harding of the Practical Valentine Advices.
> 
> **DAMN YOU BRIAN:** Aw, you’re welcome! It’s embarrassing, but glad I can help!

Slowly but surely, you finally reached the cashier. The young girl’s lips had curled in what a serial killer would look in her mugshot, one who would _not_ listen to Enya. Taking out your credit card, you quickly named your order—one large Flat White Stripes and two Simply Red Velvet, one for Robert—and handed your card, making sure to flash a thankful smile at her before leaving.

Back at where you’d been, you started to read Brian’s messages again. Something shifted inside you, and that was the point you knew.

There is a way.

The sigh you let out was long and relieved, it made Mat laughed in that easygoing way of his as he handed you your order. There wasn’t even any chance to appreciate the latte art before you raised the paper cup, took a sip, and groaned.

“I live again,” you breathed, clasping the warmth tightly with both hands.

“Welcome back,” said Mat pleasantly. “Are you doing better?”

“It seems I’ve been having a case of tunnel vision,” you said with a short, shameful laugh. “Happens a lot with new situations—like my first Valentine, come to think about it. We’re planning to bake a cake and I had been so focused in following the plan, Alex…got kind of forgotten. ”

Regretful words were spoken and an egg may have been thrown in anger.

“I understand.”

At first, Mat was silent— and then he spoke again and his eyes seemed to stare at somewhere far, far away.

“When Rosa was around, we used to have a private jam session every now and then.”

His fingers started tapping the counter in a metronome-like interval.

 “I would—play, pretty awfully back then, _God_ , and sometimes we would work together, making awful songs and having a hella time. Sometimes she’d keep the tradition alive and tried to cut me off. That was fun. Really, really fun.”

He laughed, the way you sometimes did, the kind of sound that wasn’t really intended to be happy or sad but somehow coming off as both, and you averted your eyes. The look he had on his face—it wasn’t meant for you.

 “I’m so sorry, Mat,” you murmured. “I didn’t mean to bring back old memories.”

“No,” he shook his head. “I’m glad for remembering every single bit of that, really. Which, I guess, is where I’m going with this. Thinking is useful but sometimes it can distract us from the important things.”

Your hands slightly tightened around your coffee, letting its warmth seeped through your skin. “The ones you’re supposed to celebrate with.”

He nodded. “When you look back at today, or at this year’s Valentine, what will you feel? What do you think you’ll remember, and is that what you want to remember?”

You looked down to the floor and sighed again. _Too many things that were just enough and therefore, never enough._

For once, Mat stopped his multitasking. “Sorry,” he said with an awkward chuckle. “You… probably aren’t expecting a lecture.”

“More like, I’m not expecting myself to forget, really,” you said, taking another sip. It was a bit shameful.

Then again, yesterday you weren’t even thinking about Valentine.

This, too, is a familiar behavior—glossing over all the changes and growth when it comes to yourself.

“It’s okay to forget,” said the barista, “It’s better than remembering and not doing anything with it.”

You vaguely noted a bit of sadness in his tone, and remembered the guitar he hadn’t yet to touch. Slowly, you shook your head. “We’ll always be a work in progress, I think. Maybe today is not the day we take the leap, but it doesn’t mean today’s all wasted. The best things always need time to grow and mature and maybe our experience of today will create a change in the future.”

And the solution is not to run away. Acknowledge how much you have changed and how much you still need to change, and keep the knowledge for tomorrow.

At this, you grinned—in what you hoped would be a playful face. “There, a lecture for a lecture. We’re even.”

“Well, it’s an honor to listen and be listened. I’ll have to give you a gift.” The warm smile had returned as if it never left, and he turned around, grabbing a plate of what would be the Simply Red Velvet.

It was a more elegant version of the cake you saw in the picture. The redness (okay, maroon) of the cake easily drew all attention, a cheerful contrast with the white plate. In exchange for icing sugar there was a mound of whipped cream piped on top, garnished with a chocolate square and a small golden button. When you cut the cake open, a stream of ganache immediately leaked out from the middle and you couldn’t help but gulped out loud.

When you tried it, the cake was warm and moist, its flavor a delicate balance between milk and dark chocolate. The whipped cream has cream cheese inside and it brought a mild, pleasant tang that really kept the entire thing together.

Your delightful moan was borderline obscene. With each spoonful, the struggles of today started to fade from your mind. The stream of people continued and some of them were looking at you weirdly but whatever.

“Glad you enjoyed it,” said Mat, before handing you a big paper bag that was a bit too heavy for a single cake. “Here’s the other one, and also Robert’s usual.  My gift for him.”

At first your reaction was to return the whole bag, but you thought better of it and instead, thanked your neighbor with as much gratefulness as you could muster.

“Nah, consider it an apology. Sorry I can’t talk too long.” said Mat as he swayed a small jug of milk, pouring the contents inside a cup of coffee. The results were always different; sometimes a flower, sometimes a heart, all cute and inviting.

“You have a café to run and I have a cake to bring back home.” For emphasis, you pointed your spoon at him. “Please don’t talk nonsense.”

“Well, I do welcome the break from monotony, so don’t mind it. Are you going home?”

Home. What the lighthouse symbolizes, what the lost soul seeks as they stumbled in the dark. _How good it must be to return to bed, cuddling your lover inside the warm comfort of your blanket._  

You hadn’t finished yet—something was still bubbling deep underneath—but the lighthouse was getting closer.

And home was where the path ended.

You nodded.

“Yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thoughts are going to be numbered because I. Have. Thoughts.
> 
> 1) It's kind of interesting writing the three other dads and gauging how close they became post-canon. For this universe, I'm basically taking most of the canonical dates as platonic in nature, going so far as the second date and getting a glimpse of their third date without -actually- going there. So Dadsona and Brian is still competitive but he's no longer that hostile, and both Craig and Mat's problems are known and being carefully approached in a less dramatic manner.
> 
> 2) K-Pop! In my head, if anyone here is going to like K-Pop then it's gonna be the Craig because a hella lot of K-Pop is upbeat (good for workout!) He's definitely The Longtime Fan That Brings His Daughters To A Concert As Decoy.   
> Meanwhile Mat's just being a down-to-earth music fan in general.   
> I actually am lukewarm with BTS in general but just by looking around AO3, it's clear BTS is a ridiculously fan favorite, so here's my shoutout to any BTS ARMY. (Personally, I like [Akdong Musician](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCIcXK1CI8URMIqNO_1cehiQ))
> 
> 3) Molten red velvet. I never tried it but _damn_ do I want to. For the recipe, I'm using [Southern Living's recipe](https://www.southernliving.com/recipes/molten-red-velvet-cakes-recipe) as basis but for the top look I'm using the ones from [Sprinkle Bakes](http://www.sprinklebakes.com/2012/02/red-velvet-cake-minis.html). And yes, I recognize there's a Red Velvet in K-pop.
> 
> 4) [What the hell is a paradox of choice?](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Paradox_of_Choice) Human minds are interesting.
> 
> 5) Lastly, you may notice that Dadsona does not text Joseph. I struggled with these and ultimately I just can't see him asking Joseph anything about Robert. That said, he won't be completely out of the picture.
> 
> Next, Dadsona returns home. Will Robert remain asleep? Also, will the rest of the dads reply?


	3. Luxury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So trivial, these matters, yet your heart warmed all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *crawls, offers a chapter, passes out*
> 
> Holy crap it's been a while. Is anyone still here? Nevermind. Gonna post in anyway.  
> I've kept working on this but between certain stressful events and me going to therapy, the next chapter keeps getting revised and added and revised _as per usual_. This is just the a third of what I am writing; a third I feel certain enough to post. 
> 
> And this is written within a perspective of a cis male Dadsona; there is a mention about dicks.
> 
> So, have some snuggling.

On the side table you noticed that your lover had taken his daily medications. The pill box was now empty, adorned only with the note you originally stamped on his smartphone.

> _Robert,_
> 
> _I’m heading out to town. Text me if you want anything_
> 
> _Also, are we doing anything on February 14 th?_

If you were any younger, the insinuation _may_ have been a cause for concern, a tidal wave looming over your small ship, but right now Robert wasn’t groaning or thrashing around. That recognition registered as a certain dull throb, slowly creeping down your neck and shoulder before dissipating along the constant motion of your mind, settling it down before it could even be agitated.

As similar as they are, his love of waking up late was a separate being from the low energy caused by his demons. He wouldn’t sleep this well if something bothered him.

Kneeling on the side of the bed, wrinkled with drying sweat and the sweet headiness of last night’s sex, you observed Robert’s sleeping form.

Whereas last night your lover had been breathtaking in his raw masculinity, right now every inch of his muscular form was covered in sweatpants and one of his recently unearthed sweaters. It must have been a height of fashion during….say, the late 90s, judging from all the neon patterned lines. Flaky lips dragged out a long rumble in a half-gape, sounding very similar to his battered truck.

There were four pillows on this bed; two of yours, two of his. By virtue of a devious positioning, Robert managed to hog all four while occupying more than half of the space, pressing his face on one of his pillows without actually turning the rest of his body around. One of his hands was clutching the entire duvet in a messy bundle. The other kept one of your pillow pressed to his chest. Despite all that, his bare feet were still exposed.

Occupying where your pillows were supposed to be was Betsy, splayed out on her back while snoring a faint buzz. Her body was bent like the letter C and a little bit of her tongue stuck out adorably.

Your lover’s hair, his bed, and his bedroom all danced around the idea of being a mess without actually crossing it. The lines of his face were impossible to ignore, now that there were no leather jacket and wicked grins to serve as a distraction. Even with the darkness of the curtained room he looked like a polar opposite of his usual self and the age gap between you and him obnoxiously revealed itself and yet...

And yet, your heart raced all the same, finding all of this ridiculously ~~handsome~~ ~~captivating~~ _hot_.

So much of his expressions you had seen, from a neighbor to a lover. Each and every one of them became a tender ache, small realizations settling in your chest until you were suddenly buried by how much of them you had seen. How much of them you were yet to see.

It was a luxury you thought you would never regain.

Lips curling up, your hand almost reached out to touch his hair, hovering pointlessly in the air before you pulled it back. No. Not yet. No offense to Mat, but both cake and coffee could wait.

At least your smartphone was present today and, after making sure you turned the flash off, you started snapping several dimly lit pictures. A few of Robert, a few of Betsy, and one awkwardly-angled wide shot where both man and dog were inside the frame, jaws slack in an adorable mirror of each other.

It provided something to look at while you waited for Damien Bloodmarch’s reply.

The three dots still danced up and down on the text messenger, unchanging since the accidental message you received before leaving The Coffee Spoon. Forty more minutes would pass—enough to change into your home clothes, make a hot chocolate, and return back with the mug, sitting near the edge of the bed with lap covered in duvet—before Damien’s message finally appeared on your screen.

> **Damien Bloodmarch:** Dearest friend and neighbour,
> 
> First and foremost, I shall give you the most sincere of my apologies, least of which is the atrocity pertaining to both method and timeliness of this reply. Were I to have my way, you shall receive this in a properly written letter where I could explain myself in much clarity. We may even have this talk in person where we could find comfort in the voice and presence of each other.
> 
> Unfortunately, I am still at work where it continues to demand my time and attention, and only now can I find the occasional slice of respite to give you a proper response.
> 
> But it is my hesitation to suggest anything which takes the primary share of this letter. I have been pacing and fretting and, assuming my presumptuousness is correct and the question you posited is intended for yourself and Robert, it would have been hubris to offer my assistance when the same conundrum still plagued my mind.
> 
> Not to mention, I must remorsefully admit of lacking the necessary closeness to make any educated guess regarding what our neighbour would find favorable in a gift. It would be possible, for instance, to start with a general claim that food is something most people would enjoy, but I would find myself stumbling to figure out the specifics of it.
> 
> However, our overlapping situations made me incapable to ignore the plea for help in your message. Thus, while words cannot take away the sting of refusal, I can inform my dear Mary of your present plight if you ever wish it. Her temperament is of a practical kind, and her competence and closeness to Robert would make her the help I shamefully cannot be.
> 
> I shall wait for your reply no matter the words. Knowing you, they would not be anything beyond what I deserved.
> 
> Begging your forgiveness,
> 
> Damien Bloodmarch
> 
> **You:** Damien, I appreciate your reply and the honesty you are giving to me. An advice given with carelessness is potentially more damaging than its absence so there really is nothing for me to forgive. Your choice to remain silent has helped me more than otherwise.
> 
> **You:** And you are also heard, Damien, and you are definitely not alone. In fact, I must admit to find myself heartened by our similarities.
> 
> May I also be so candid to assume that we are talking about our other neighbor here?
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** It is indeed futile for me to pretend otherwise. Yes, I am talking about one Hugo Vega.

Pleasant yet loaded with nuance, displaying the intended emotions and all the ways they should be viewed without ever crossing the line to maudlinness. Truly a good Victorian letter.

Of course, then Damien sputtered.

> **Damien Bloodmarch:** He is so cool
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** Oh no
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** I am sorry
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** I shouldn’t have
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** Oh, this is embarrassing. I apologize.

In a good change after this morning, thoughts were harmlessly ebbing and flowing alongside the drag-and-release sound of snoring.

Words were scrutinized to avoid unintentional insults. Arbitrary details were squeezed, and the remaining fragments were arranged and sorted in some sort of a highlight reel. For a while you fancied yourself an Austenian protagonist, writing important letters that could make or break your entire estate.

The process absorbed your entire focus until a grunt made you jolt.

“Stop squirming around,” muttered Robert, head already propped on his hand.

“Oh hey,” your voice was several octaves higher than usual. “Did you sleep well?”

“Mmm.” He was staring with an expression yet unnamed, a roguish blend of crankiness and amusement. “Could be better.”

Scooting closer in a sluggish motion, the older man patted the area around you for a few seconds before plopping his pillow right on your lap. Barely opening his eyes, Robert made a lazy noise and lunged into the memory foam, taking a bit of your air when he draped his arms tightly around your torso.

“Perfect,” he concluded, all smugness.

You had to agree.

For all the (comparatively) hard lines that made his body, your lover was always warm and firm to touch, his weight comfortable. The baseness of sex and sweat still lingered around him, adorned with the airy sweetness from the same fabric softener surrounding you right now.

It felt like hugging a huge, hot, and horny heater.

It felt like home.

A constant hum from the new heater rose above the emerging silence. You playfully ruffled his sleep-mussed hair, moving your hand down to his jaw, his sweater; neon purple zigzag turned almost black in the lack of light. “There’s a cake in the kitchen for you. Molten red velvet, if you can believe it.”

“Mmm, cake.”

“There’s also coffee from Mat. Black and thick and bitter, just how you like it.”

“Mmm, coffee.”

“And are you going to wake up?” you teased, repeatedly poking his head.

“ _Nope_.”

Robert chuckled, even more pleased with himself as he curled even more into your body and pressed his face on your torso. His breathing was quiet and steady, no longer sleeping yet unwilling to tear apart.

When bending down to kiss him proved impossible, you settled with adjusting the duvet until it covered the two of you more properly. “Now I might be mistaken, but you are so adorably clingy today.”

“Mmm, you’re cuter. Now shut up,” whined your lover, always a bit more childish in his first moments of wakefulness.

Moments began to stretch in a comfortable haze, and your senses started taking in your surroundings with leisure.

In the unchanging darkness, Robert started lying on his back and scratched his torso. Staring, you realized, watching you typed as the correspondence with Damien flowed. His feet dragged the duvet as it sought one of your pillows, pulling it upwards until his legs could trap the feathery bag of good night sleep right inbetween them.

All two pillows were another kind of luxury, so expensive even after months of waiting and a strategic use of store coupons. They were another entry in the long list of your stuffs finding their way here. The same could certainly be said with Robert’s stuffs in your house.

Philosophical boundaries between _yours_ and _his_ continued to blur the more you hopped houses. One day, you would even refer to some of these things with the plural you.

So trivial, these matters, yet your heart warmed all the same.

Somehow, without searching or wandering, your mind seemed to find the way on its own. Valentine’s Day, for all the grandiose surrounding it, was just that—a day out of many.

Do not ignore the forest for the tree.

Behind you, Betsy started to cut her snoring to let a small whine, legs paddling the air as if she was running. She seemed to be deep in sleep, but you knew the truth and from the way your lover clutched your sweater, so was he. “Australia sounds damn perfect right now,” groaned Robert, slow puffs of breath warm on your torso.

There were just way too much questions about that statement, so you resorted to a perfectly safe “Well, good morning to you too.”

“Just think about it. It’s dark and there ain’t no snow and everyone’s sleeping. Happy times all around.” He rubbed his face on your cotton shirt, pressing bleary eyes right below your belly button.

You decided not to bring their infamous everything-is-trying-to-kill-you habitat.  “…Sure does, but are you sure we can go there without getting up?”

Pause.

“Goddamnit.” Robert grabbed your pillow and smacked your chuckling self lightly on the head. “Just let me dream this impossible dream, asshole. Whatchu looking at?”

Carefully, with the brightly lit screen facing away from Robert’s squinting eyes, you handed your phone to him.

> **Damien Bloodmarch:** From the beginning, from the first time I saw my beloved, before I could ever call him with such a brazen title, I have long known that our Hugo Vega is a man whose mind is as good as his form, a man of intellect and sophistication beyond anyone I have ever met.
> 
> Needless to say, the common maxim warning us not to judge the book from its cover can sometimes turned out to be an incomplete generalization. As it has happened to me, not only does the cover make a very fine impression, the content only extends and deepens my adoration the longer I take my time to savor each details. Each expectation broken is replaced with a reality so simple and yet so complex, I would never be sure I will have enough time and words to explain it properly.
> 
> His admiration of both modern and classical literature may sounds contradictive when juxtaposed by his other passions, but I can inform you with the utmost certainty that it does not. He is no less attractive in relaxed T-shirts as he is in his teacher’s suit—and this is one point where I have to respectfully ask your understanding not to ask any further, for certain images I must contend to keep it inside my head, never to be shared with anyone.
> 
> To put it simply: Hugo is intense and intelligent and adorable and silly and so unfathomably cool, dearest friend.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** Please excuse the length. Or the lack of clarity. Or, to make things more convenient for you, please just ignore what I just wrote above.
> 
> **You:** ……..Well. I’ll just say that it is both a boon and a horror to hear my plight being voiced with such accuracy. I am blushing fierce right now.
> 
> **You:** I must admit to share the basic framework of your feelings—in sentiment, if not in details— when it comes to Robert.
> 
> **You:** This is why

“Is this a fanfic,” He deadpanned after a few seconds of silence. “Are you two writing fanfics.”

“It’s a _correspondence_ ,” you protested, “And your breath’s awful. Did you eat some kind of dead animal while I’m out?”

“Ate a cock last night, remember?” Knowing you hated his morning breath seemed to spur him even more. “Drooled all over the place, that poor thing,” cooed Robert with a snicker, giving up the pretense of sleep and intentionally emitting a lot more air than they should.

He blocked your attempt to smack him with the feather pillow and rolled off your lap.

You finally noticed why. At the corner of your eyes, Betsy already had her eyes opened, stretching left and right until she flopped on her belly. “Hey, Betsy. Did you see that? Not my fault he made it so easy, right?” whispered Robert, reaching out to pet her and grinning when she let a happy bark. From the wet, panting sound you were hearing, Betsy returned the greeting.

Being annoyed was hard when his smile was this gentle and fond, and so you decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth and just enjoyed this small luxury of yours.

Yours alone.

You swung your pillow at him once more, though.

**======**

> **You:** Sorry, Robert was waking up and being a, forgive my bluntness, massive dick.
> 
> **You:** My point stands, however.

**======**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's fun and frustrating writing Damien's _letters._ There's going to be a complete transcription of what happened because I am so incredibly extra, but it's going to be just fragments for the purpose of the main plot.
> 
> Also, a short heads-up; the next chapter is going to be pretty explicit in many ways. 
> 
> Hint: Mary.


	4. Learning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe you were looking at this whole Valentine’s Day business in a wrong way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A third more; this time with a light angst, sappiness, and some stealth references to previous fics!
> 
> Also, CONTENT WARNING:
> 
> This chapter has a.... _decisively more mature humor_ , so to speak. Also, a single usage of bitch and cunt respectively, spoken in a supposedly joking context.  
> You can see the end notes for more.
> 
> I must admit that this is my first time writing this style of bantering, so it is very possible for me to miss the mark. If it is, please kindly inform me.

Whoever controlled the Massachusetts sky seemed to decide it hadn’t fucked everyone’s day hard enough and started bringing out rain that quickly turned into sleet, dropping ice pellets and making faint rustles outside to join the soft droning from Robert’s old washing machine. It was a quiet song, the kind of ambient noise an app would play to help you sleep, and if it was any other time you could have used this opportunity to take a nap.

Not now. By mid-afternoon you were nesting at Robert’s living room, curling up even tighter on the sofa. Drafts were composed, edited, and then deleted with extreme prejudice before it was recomposed. You could feel the all-familiar strain of overthinking rearing its head once again, blocking out the world until you heard Robert’s voice speaking from behind.

“What are you doing?”

The sudden question made you jump. “Don’t sneak up on me,” you gasped, clutching the phone tight on your chest while glaring at the looming Robert.

“What?” His lips twisted even further in confusion. Both coffee and cake from Mat stood on a single wide plate, shaking dangerously with every step until he placed them right on the coffee table and grabbed the remote control in exchange. “I’m not. You’re the one looking at your phone with this squinty, frowny face.”

Subconsciously, you checked your face. They were indeed frowning.

With a hefty drop, your lover draped his body all over you like a blanket, resisting your valiant attempts to shove him off while fiddling with the remote control and switching channels. Betsy almost jumped to his side before the older man held a hand up and pointed it at her bed across the room. She ignored her owner’s order and sauntered away to play.

“Are you reading the news again?” Robert asked with the carefulness of a minesweeper.

Shaking your head, you flipped your phone, giving him a glimpse of the messenger window. That was enough to make the older man dislodge himself away, and you continued writing your draft. Words crawled one by one until the message was deemed safe enough, and then you reluctantly tapped _send_.

Boring sports narration about an amateur tennis match started blurring with the ambient sounds. Robert took this chance to speak again, drawing his eyes up from the depths of his mug. “Still with Bloodmarch, I guess? S’pose there ain’t any throbbing manhood now.”

“There have never been any manhood to begin with,“ you shook your head softly.

The truth was a bit more complicated than that.

By your own urging, Damien had begun revealing a glimpse of his fear. It was a good thing, except so much of what your neighbor had written was achingly familiar; things like—

 

 

> **Damien Bloodmarch:** Are you not afraid of what you may learn?
> 
> **You:** There will always be that fear, of course, but it is a risk I am willing to accept and it is a risk I am capable of minimizing.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** But what if the things you learned ended up widening the gap instead of bridging it?
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** What if our actions failed to reduce the risk, and instead exacerbated it until what was a small spark turned into a forest fire?
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** What if you learned something that changed the way you looked at him?
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** What if you ended up feeling the two of you are
> 
> **You:** Damien?
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** Forgive me, I did not intend to send that fragment and it is not something you should burden yourself with.

—and it was a delicate situation, to say the least.

Talking about this also had a high chance of recalling your shared past and it was a surefire way to make Robert several shades grouchier than usual. Didn’t notice he kept doing it, of course, but the older man was never the one for nostalgia and you had no plans to dig out old matters either way.

Nevertheless, your face must have broadcasted your hesitation, because Robert suddenly huffed a low, vaguely threatening noise that was totally unrelated to the oh-so-boring match playing on the screen.

Tilting your head up from your phone, you gave him a steady and curious glance. “What’s wrong?”

He shoved a spoonful of cake into his mouth, sucking the spoon like a lollipop until its metallic surface was licked clean. “I think you should call Mary,” he said, spoon pointed right at you before he rested his head on the sofa.

You absently nodded, and waited until your next draft was finished and sent before putting the phone face down on the sofa. “It’s not hard to guess why,” you started in, “But this is a very personal matter for Damien and I think he should ask her himself if he needs her help.”

Somehow your reply resulted in the older man staring at you. His thinned lips started to fade until they gaped in an increasingly dumbfounded look, and you couldn’t help noticing how much of a mess his unwashed hair was, crushed flat on one side and rising in a spike on another. Somehow it only added an attractive debauchery, like how a rockstar would look after a wild night. You wanted to kiss him all the same.

So you followed your impulse and did just that, letting the slow friction of your lips broke whatever lull he got himself into. A hint of coffee and chocolate was sweet in your lips, sweeter when your lover greeted you halfway in the next second, teasing just a hint of tongue before playfully shoving your body backwards.

Robert was grinning, and whatever tension was there had dissipated. “Alright, you minx, gotta set you straight on a few things before you do more of that naughty shit.”

 “….Okay, as long as it’s not about touching genitals. I very much like rubbing organs with you.”

The ceramic plate clattered, quickly placed on the table and replaced with a throw pillow he used to smack your head with. “First, I’m not saying you should call Mary because of Bloodmarch. Second, what makes you think she can be trusted with his— fuck, what makes you think she can be trusted with any feelings?” he followed with a snicker.

You tried to speak, and ended up raising an eyebrow when nothing came out.

“Impossible. Definitely impossible. Bet you twenty bucks she has hurt Damien in the past. Hell—I’ll bet you fifty they have fought before.”

His voice was so close to a laugh you could hear it. Your hands clutched into his arms, pressing in on the hidden firmness underneath the tacky patterns. “I’m… not sure I’m getting you?”

“I’m not telling you to call her because Bloodmarch needs her help or because she does it better than you, I’m telling you—”

“Because she does it _worse_ ,” you finished in dawning horror, clenching the frayed sleeves. Robert immediately ducked as you grabbed another throw pillow and smacked his head in turn. “That’s rude!”

“ _It’s the truth_ ,” the roughness of his voice was playful and teasing, “Why do you think I’m close with her to begin with? Not because of her husband, it’s not.”

Your mouth opened and closed. There was something within that statement; a history you felt was not yours to peek. “Still rude.”

“Fine; I accept being the hick in this relationship with pride,” said Robert, helplessly holding back a chuckle in the back of his throat while puffing out his chest. By now, the television played to an audience of zero. “You just stay classy and write beautiful fanfics with Bloodmarch.”

“At least call it erotica,” you groaned. “The writers of that genre deserved less stigma for what they do and—“

“Just text her. If it’s about Damien I don’t think you need to tell her any details at all.”

Robert was smiling, but there was some tension in his voice, a pressure cutting off the tangent you were about to made. Warm fingers traced your jaws before turning around and brushing his knuckles across your cheeks.

You sighed, but your lips unconsciously curved into a smile. “Can I ask for an explanation?”

He echoed the sigh. “Do I have to?” Slowly, carefully, one hand cradled your head and gently lowered it to his shoulder. It was a familiar gesture, done repeatedly whenever you had been thinking too much as if the burden inside your head were actual weights. It felt nice. It was also pretty telling. “Because I know you and you ain’t gonna brave the cold so suddenly without something inside your pretty li’l head, buddy.”

“Is that why you’re not replying to my message?”

Robert just nodded with the barest tilt of his eyes. “Kinda. Not ‘cause I don’t want to. Just don’t wanna push you before you’re ready.”

“What happened yesterday was not your fault.”

“Ain’t even talking bout yesterday; tell me if I’m wrong, but if you’re really ready, we would’ve had an entirely different conversation by now. No?”

You couldn’t argue with that, not with his hand keeping your head sheltered comfortably on his shoulder.

“Guessed as much. I don’t get why people are freaking out about February 14th, but what really matters for me is that you are. So take your time, do what you gonna do, I’m not going anywhere. But don’t—“ His words hitched, yet another familiar reaction, and after taking a deep breath he finally turned the television off. “I worry you’re adding too much to your plate, know what I’m saying?” he finished his words in an almost whisper.

You did. You kissed him just to make sure he knew that.

You also had no plans of stopping.

“I suppose getting a help from Mary doesn’t necessarily entail betraying Damien’s confidence,” you pondered. “You’re right, though: it won’t do him any good if my stubbornness ended up being hurtful.”

Robert paused, then snickered, then shook his head with a fond sigh. “That. Is not. What I’m saying at all.”

“We did establish that I have a bad case of martyr complex?”

“ _And that’s not a good thing_ ,” groaned Robert.

You grinned and tightened your arms around him. “Regardless, I do have you to worry about me, and I will try my best not to abuse that too much.” His torso had grown a little bit of softness around the sides, much better to cuddle with. “Thanks for the attention. I’ll keep myself ready to talk after this.”

“Just make sure you’ll be alright. ‘s all I ask.”

The soft texture of his sweater scraped against your fingers. No words were said, but Robert had his whiskery face jammed between your neck and shoulder, rough on skin yet soft on movement. His arms were two strong pillars as he held your body; not because you were weak, but because he cared. You could feel the strain at the back of your head crumbling, your racing thoughts ceasing its movement to release a tired whimper.

How easy it was to savor the closeness, to breathe in his scent. How easy it was to feel his love.

**======**

> **You:**  Bitch pick up the phone I know u r there
> 
> **You:**  I’m sorry, that was Robert.
> 
> **You:**  Are you free, actually?
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** Are you asking for intel or advice or what
> 
> **You:**  …Perspective, perhaps, but about Damien
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** Holy Mother of God.
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** You asked him too, don’t you.
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** And then he starts crying about himself.
> 
> **You:**  Right, he mentioned you had helped him too.
> 
> **You:**  …wait, is that a possibility?
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** Okay, which house should I go to cut a bitch?
> 
> **You:** Uh. Robert’s? But nothing is happening yet.
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** And not only do I prefer to keep it that way, this is exactly the emergency I need
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** I’m coming there. Don’t you dare run away.

**======**

A chilling burst of wind announced Mary Christiansen’s arrival, cold and damp and looking positively _murderous_ as the front door slammed shut. The woman strode inside Robert’s house like she owned the building and everyone inside it, sensible winter boots thumping loudly as she swung her tiny black clutch like a flail. Her growl was lathered with barely concealed venom.

Robert only snickered as he threw her a towel. “’Sup, pissflaps? Too much fools to suffer?”

The onceover she gave him was scathing. “Well, you should be grateful that this bunch of idiots makes your fashion tragedy positively endearing, dipshit.”

“What did they do to offend you this much, breathing?” asked your lover as he ushered Mary into the living room, where she shrugged off her coat and scarf before tossing them over to one side of the sofa. They all bundled into a mess of khaki and burgundy, a monster made out of jutting fabrics with Mary sitting beside them like the beastmaster. You and Robert were practically an embarrassment across the table; two peasants welcoming the drenched queen inside your humble abode. It made you feel the slightest pang of insecurity over the state of the living room. Yesterday’s cleanup had made the space more serviceable than its usual form but dealing with Damien made for a very limited follow-up. Meanwhile Robert spent his time watching you, only bothering to take both empty plate and mug back to the kitchen several minutes ago.

“I swear to God I almost got through, and then they had the fucking gall to extend the entire thing in this shitty weather,” One of her hand began taking off her boots when she turned her glower to you. “Now, what is happening with Dames and his fragile heart.”

“I didn’t do anything,” you blurted in reflex, hiding your phone under your thighs. “Yet.”

“Yet,” she repeated, pinching the bridge of the nose. “From a scale of one to ten, how fucked up are you?”

Your brow furrowed in worry as you looked down. “…..He’s getting to the heart of it—this is my first time seeing him like this.”

> **Damien Bloodmarch:** First, a prior acknowledgement is perhaps required before I begin.
> 
> I will be the first to agree that elements of our past are harmful, be that malice or ignorance. Certain values, rituals, and traditions are made for the sake of a small amount of people, oftentimes upheld under the blood, sweat, and tears of others. Being swept away by the ravages of time is the least of what should have happened, and the fact that so much of them still exist—no, flourish—in these days and time hurt me to no end.
> 
> And I am obliged to inform you this because, in contradiction, I find a certain comfort in the tested and true when it comes to celebrations.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** However, a new relationship cannot stubbornly remain as two individuals with two entirely different lives; such a lack of connection is not what I desired.
> 
> Therefore, a change is required. At least a compromise, if not something entirely new.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** Thus I made a sudden purchase of two wrestling tickets for myself and my beloved
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** He was ecstatic, I was thrilled, and that should have been the end of it.

Pulling out your phone, you almost offered the woman a look before deciding that it would be best not to. “I cannot show you though. It seems very important for him.”

“Oh, right. I’m talking to someone with actual ethics.” Mary sighed. “Fair. At least nobody’s crying for now.”

Heart twisted in a knot, you started scrolling the messages up. “Was he always this hesitant?”

“Oh, yeah.” She laughed mirthlessly, probably the first time you saw the tension on her face persisting this long. “That’s Damien all right, suffering alone because he believes his selfishness will just burden everyone.”

You bristled at that remark and kept your gaze fixed at the phone.

Rustling and grumbling from your surroundings ruled over the tentative silence and it took a divine intervention, namely Betsy’s happy barks, to elicit an inaudible sigh of relief from you.

The Boston terrier basically jumped onto the sofa upon her arrival, so happy to see Mary and ready to show it by attempting to lick her make-upped face clean. That created a funny skit where the woman tried her best to keep the undeterred dog’s face away from hers.

“No, no, no, sit down or I’m not giving you a treat,” she warned, raising her bag as a shield and glaring theatrically over it.

With no fear of death, Betsy stuck her head inside the bag instead.

Your eyes met Robert’s and you caught a glimpse of something that made your heart skipped a beat before he leaned back and smirked with the theatrical smugness of a willing victim. “Ain’t gonna work, Mary; just give it up.”

She refused, pulling her bag up beyond Betsy’s reach, but that was exactly when Betsy knelt in front of her and used her puppy eyes. Of course, being stared by two hugely disproportionate eyes was super effective and the woman begrudgedly drew a bone-shaped treat from her bag, dropping it to the floor for the dog to relish.

Robert just endured Mary’s furious glare with a nonchalant shrug.

 “I can keep that longer, you know that,” she said. “I volunteer at an animal shelter. Lonely animals begging for food and attention are my daily bread.”

“Sure,” he drawled. Somehow he managed to extend that one word for several seconds.

“I know her before you even did. Her puppy eyes have no effect to me.”

“That you are,” said your lover cheerfully.

Mary scoffed. “Dickcheese.”

Robert grinned. “Thundercunt.”

You deadpanned. “What and what.”

“Nuh-uh, you don’t get to change the topic.” The woman pointed a well-manicured finger at you, tipped with a deep, obscene red that you desperately hoped was nail polish. “Has Dames started moaning about sweaty wrestlers?”

“What?” Your voice rose to a hitch.

“See?” interrupted your lover oh-so suddenly before you elbowed him, “He’s writing dirty fanfics, sorry— _oof_ , erotica. Stop doing that!”

“Stop your cutesy bickering and _focus_.” Mary shook her head, not even bothering to hide her disgust. “I’m sure you’ve heard what he’s planning. All I’m going to say is, don’t comment on any of that unless you want the front row ticket to hear him drunk singing _Part of Your World_. It’s not as nice as it sounds after ten times, trust me.”

Robert made a painful sound and blanched away from the woman. “God, memories of drunken _Hakuna Matata_ are coming back to me now.”

Mary crossed her arms and legs, and her voice rose to a defensive lilt. “If you don’t subject your friends to ill-timed, booze-induced Disney karaoke every now and then, are you really friends?”

Robert did the exact same thing, adding a petulant flair to each action. “Guess I know what I’m talking in my next session.”

“What, you mean you haven’t even talked about me to your therapist? God _damn_ , hard work doesn’t pay.”

“I know, I know; you aren’t even that much of an asshole. Sorry to be the one to break this horrible news,” replied Robert with a shrug, somehow capable of making the words sound insulting.

With her toes, Mary dangled one of her shoes and tossed it off at Robert. “Stockholm Syndrome is a thing, fucker.”

It was easily caught and tossed back, landing on the pile of coat and scarf across the table. “And growing a conscience is also a thing, you poor lost lamb,” replied Robert in an absolute mockery of a sympathetic tone.

“Yeah, I’d like a refund, thank you very much. Having eight arms is a more convenient option when I need to dismember certain neighbors of mine, don’t you think?”

Robert and Mary had always danced on the intersection between sarcasm, black comedy, and genuine meanness and that was fine. Your taste and inability to comprehend their humor were essentially irrelevant. Thus, while they were playfully trading insults to each other, you tapped a short reply to Damien and let your attention shift away. Yesterday’s block of basswood was now fully transformed into a bird of prey perching at the middle of the table.

For all your experience with Alex, this year’s Valentine made you feel really clueless and that particular uncertainty seeped through your bones like the worst of winter. Sure, your rational mind could try and produce several reasons why your present state was understandable, but it was practically useless when it came to making you feel less troubled. This was starting to go in circles; the more you searched and asked, the more you felt like there was no definite answer to begin with.

Maybe you were looking at Damien’s problem in a wrong way.

Maybe you were looking at this whole Valentine’s Day business in a wrong way.

And of course your treacherous mind decided this would be the perfect time to shut down completely.

Thus, you were adrift on the windless sea, noticing how Robert and Mary had completely ceased their banter.

“Sorry,” you awkwardly chuckled. It was hard to ignore the concern on your lover’s eyes. “I must have been distracted for a while, huh?”

By contrast, Mary kept her game face strong despite having the towel from Robert wrapping around her head like a turban. “Yeah, I can basically hear your brain overworking from here. You want to talk about it?” she asked in a detached tone.

“I don’t know,” you sighed. “I’m feeling like I’m still approaching this entire Valentine thing from the wrong angle.”

Hesitating, Robert held out his hand; a silent offer you readily took. It was clammy with sweat. “How…are you feeling, bud?”

“Ridiculously clueless,” you began—and stopped.

The words didn’t come out. Well, no, that was false. More like _too much word_ came out without any proper points to start.

Mary sighed with the bored air of someone who had seen this happening too often. “You must be aware that having some performance anxiety is to be expected, especially if you’re returning from a hiatus after a while—which you are, by the way.”

“I know.” You nodded slowly. “The first time is going to be hard. I kept telling myself that, and yet…”

“It bothers you?”

“I wasn’t this stressed with Alex.” You abruptly realized how fucked up you sounded and stuttered. “Not that I have to compare anyone in the first place, it’s just…I kept thinking like—“

A single _fuck_ echoed inside your mind and your jaw clenched, stomach bottoming out on itself in the gut. Whispers and murmurs began crowding your head, viscous and smothering with feelings you didn’t want to know, words you didn’t want to hear.

“I kept thinking I’m going to fail you,” said yourself while turning your head until you could see him; the judge, jury, and executioner, the only one whose voice truly mattered here.

Robert exhaled a ragged breath and closed his eyes for a long moment. His grip on your hand tightened. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Your pulse was an echo thumping through your ears. “…Can you tell me?”

A stream of emotions flowed across Robert’s face within the fraction of a second, but the final expression he settled on was something you were very familiar with by now. It was the same steeliness of a man staring down his ~~demons sins~~ past, a glare full of _why are you still here, why didn’t you listen, why do you stay even after everything._

“For me,” he rasped, sucking in a shallow lungful of air, “The worst would be you finally deciding I’m not worth trying for.”

 “ _Smalls,”_ groaned Mary in a long-suffering voice.

“ _What_?” he snapped, harsh and defensive, “He asked.”

A spark propelled you forward and you clasped his face, letting your presence ground him in return. “It won’t happen,” you said, more firm than gentle. “None of it.”

At the corner of your eyes, Robert's fingers fidgeted for an invisible cigar he did not have. He opened his mouth, closed it, gritted his teeth as if he was trying to hold back before finally speaking. Unraveling. “Can never be certain about that, buddy. You know the deal.”

_You'll regret it. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of your life._

And that was the final push you need to carry your ship to shore.

 “I agree. That’s exactly why we’re going to try.” By willpower alone you refused to look away, letting Robert see you in all your vulnerable, fallible glory. “Maybe we’ll end up enjoying it or, yes, maybe everything will suck but, you know, that’s a good thing on its own, isn’t it?”

“How do you know?” Robert choked out.

“I don’t. Not at all,” you chuckled a bit roughly. Gentle warmth seeped through your skin and your heart stuttered in a jumbled rhythm. “We did cause each other pain, and we will keep doing that in the future, but I won’t regret any of that if it’s going to make both of us stronger as a team.”

_Though it may feel otherwise, enjoying life is no more dangerous than apprehending it with continuous anxiety and gloom._

With each little headbutt you gave, the words kept flowing and you couldn’t stop talking. You just couldn’t. “And I’m sorry. I’m sorry for making you worry, I’m sorry that you have to take care of me again, I’m so sorry for getting too deep in my head, I ignored your concerns _twice.”_

“I was being too obsessed on finding something good enough to express how I love all about you, so obsessed that I ended up forgetting the most important thing in this whole venture is sharing ourselves and enjoying our time together.”

Different from the Roman feast it originated from, or the egalitarian way Saint Valentine married Christians back then, the modern incarnation of Valentine’s Day is a very personalized celebration. Not only celebrating _a_ love or _the_ Love, but _your_ love, and it would forever remain a work in progress, growing and evolving with each passing year.

Everything started falling into place. It was never what capitalism tried so valiantly to sell: not an issue of possession, not an issue of choosing the right thing to give, not a negotiation with two hearts at its stake.

It was an issue of learning.

“Now, I always welcomed any opportunity I have to learn more about you, be that good or bad. So--Can I make up for it? Can you help me learning more about yourself?”

“—wha?” Robert was gaping, his mind still catching up. It was impossible, however, to ignore the fondness reflected on his eyes; an inviting depth you wouldn’t mind sinking into.

There it was: your lighthouse, your destination. What a luxury.

You grinned. “Say, around next week? The middle of February sounds good, y’know. Has a _sense of occasion_ around it.”

The dawning understanding in Mary’s face peaked three seconds later.

Robert caught up the next second.

His recognition exploded into a stifled, bashful laugh as he backed away, turning around and burying his entire face in his hands.

Mary had this mixture of disgust and astonishment on her face, like she just saw a pimple popping video for the very first time. “Jesus _Harold_ Christ, did I just hear something fucking sappy spoken in front of me?”

After muttering a lot of inaudible things, Robert managed to wheeze a “ _Shut up_ ,” before exchanging his hands for a throw pillow. His words were hard to take seriously given how red his ears were.

“You guys are doomed,” claimed the woman while shaking her head in disbelief. “Unsalvageable. Dames and the other nerd aren’t this bad.”

“And I’ll choose to take that as a compliment, thank you,” you said with a shrug.

Betsy somehow found her way into Mary’s lap and made a happy yip.

It took at least a full minute for Robert to gather enough composure to rejoin the conversation, and by that point a wide grin had attached itself firmly on his face. He looked much more handsome this way.

“So we’re doing this.”

“It would be an honor if you agree, yes,” you said. “All I’m asking is a lack of surprises; that’s it.”

“Alright,” he nodded. “No big deal. We’ll plan it together if that’s what you want.”

“That’d be perfect, thank you.”

“Fuckin’ A,” said Robert with a victorious fistpump. “This is gonna be fun.”

“Both of you owe me for this, you know that?” asked Mary, looking so fed up while giving Betsy a belly rub. “I don’t bring enough booze for this; no, sir, I do not.”

“Well, actually,” you leaned forward. “I hadn’t heard what happened with you, Mary. Do you want to talk about it?”

“Fresh from an epiphany and he goes again helping people.” Robert basically facepalmed, grin still intact. “You’re unbelievable, buddy.”

“Aww, nice for you to ask, but no, it’s not your problem.” Mary has her shoulders slumped, like a burden had been cast off, and she gave you a wry smirk before dropping another treat for Betsy on the floor. “At least, as far as I know you aren’t against vaccinations; if you do, keep it away from me, thank you.”The moment the dog jumped back to the floor, she immediately stretched her legs taut.

“Oh…”

“Great, not the funny kind of stupid either,” Robert snorted.

“I don’t know; there’s a certain kind of comedy involved when college-educated parents seemed to think good ol’ measles disappeared from America for exactly no reason.” The eyeroll she gave involved most of her upper body. “Better laughing than crying; isn’t that the slogan these days?”

“See, your mistake is having any hope for human decency from the start. Like, this guy? _Fine_ , I can understand, but you, Mary? You know better.”

Robert released a theatrical sigh and nudged your shoulder, still grinning.

Mary threw her head backwards and moaned exaggeratedly, dropping the towel to the floor while doing it. “Oh, you should see what happened in the night: me, a little vibrating friend, some really nice wine, critical thinking. Brings a whole new meaning to ‘rigorous debate’, let me tell you.”

 “Get a boyfriend like the rest of us, sicko,” shouted Robert without any bite.

“Please; don’t put yourself with me, Smalls; you’re no longer marinated in booze and misanthropy.”

“Me? Misanthropy? _Fucker_ , your heart ain’t even beating.”

“Oh, you thought I have a heart,” laughed Mary—a genuine one. “Therapy _does_ work; all hail the OG Mary.“ She started slotting her feet into her boots, and grabbed her coat and scarf before standing up. “Alright, I’ve wasted enough time. I’m gonna pick the kids up and then I’m getting myself a really strong treat. You sure you got everything handled, nerd?”

“I’ll try my best,” you nodded with a smile. “I hope you can also check up on Damien if you got time?”

“You don’t have to ask, silly,” Mary snorted on reflex. “Smalls, Jim and Kim’s at ten. Don’t bring this nerd until he’s sorted out everything.”

“Yeah, yeah, call me if you need an alibi,” said your lover with a nonchalant wave, still looking unbearably pleased. “Drive safe, ass.”

Mary shook her head and looked up, as if she was making a short prayer. “Not planning to die anytime soon, dipshit, but thanks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About the jokes, there are a couple of humors intended to be "the intersection between sarcasm, black comedy, and genuine meanness."  
> One extended section basically attacked people who are against vaccines.  
> There are a couple jabs from Mary referencing Robert taking therapy, less ribbing about the act of seeking professional help and more about "Why aren't you talking more about _moi_ , huh?"
> 
> And then there's this exchange:  
>  _Mary scoffed. “Dickcheese.”_  
>  Robert grinned. “Thundercunt.”
> 
>  
> 
> [Though it may feel otherwise, enjoying life is no more dangerous than apprehending it with continuous anxiety and gloom.](https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/642596-though-it-may-feel-otherwise-enjoying-life-is-no-more)
> 
> As I wrote this, I realized that the main conflict is really about Dadsona and his overthinking, doesn't it? So the resolution became less about discovery and more about 'fuck this I'm just going to have fun'--which was something I am not expecting at all! 
> 
> Again, writing Damien's letter is both fun and frustrating. The full transcript is coming after the next chapter~
> 
> Now, the main problem's done, and now we rush to the closing part of this day before skipping to Valentine's Day itself.  
> There are going to be handjobs! And a mild sweat kink! Woo!


	5. Laughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Indeed, when you looked back in the future, today would just be a day full of laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're ending this long-ass day. Have some handjob, snuggling, and some meta humor that may or may not be the character's message to the writer.
> 
> You know, it's been roughly a year since my first fic on AO3, and--shit, it's been a year. A tough year, but I'm deeply grateful for every single support all of you have been giving me. Thank you so much!
> 
> CW : scent & sweat kink. Only a bit, but it was _definitely_ there.
> 
> Again, disclaimer : While the non-smut chapters can be read as any gender, the smut chapters are (going to be written) from a perspective of Dadsona as a cis male. Thank you for the understanding~

Much to your delight—or perhaps with your heart still fully warmed after what happened—the cold air felt a little less biting.

Holding Betsy close, you waved Mary goodbye as she left, decisively less murderous without being any less imposing. Lavender-orange sky spread itself soft and wide with only a few dusting of clouds hinting of the bygone rain. Brian’s house already had his lights on, and you made a mental note to thank your neighbors properly tomorrow.

Closing the door back in, the only remaining sounds were the dog’s panting and the washing machine, filling the ambience with its constant rumbling. An hour more and it was time to enjoy the rest of your evening in relative quiet. As if reading your mind, Betsy wiggled her tiny legs eagerly when you nudged her nose with yours. “Soon, okay?” you said, giggling upon receiving a few wet kisses. “Good girl.”

You dropped the Boston terrier off the cold floor and headed back towards the living room. Robert hadn’t moved from his seat, settled nicely in a thinking pose even when nothing was playing on the wide-screen television. His smile hadn’t left.

“Betsy’s itching for a walk,” you said while cleaning your face from dog spit and snow. “And since you’ve got somewhere else to be and I’ve had enough cold wind for a week, what do you think about hopping over next door?”

“Good enough,” he said. “But c’mere first.” Well. Damien’s last message was about commuting back home, so there was enough time and attention for you to have a proper talk with your lover.

Except Robert didn’t seem to have any idea of talking in mind; it only took a curious arch of your eyebrow to make him curl into you and release more weird noises. They sounded like an unholy child between a giggle, a dry heave, and a whimper than any kind of laughter; not at all what you would call an attractive sound, and yet it was so incredibly infectious. Everything else got sidelined as you joined him, wheezing at nothing and everything and something else you didn’t really understand.

His forehead was heavy on your shoulder and his fingers clutched on well-worn fabric like it was his only lifeline. “How did I—“ he paused, bit the sleeve of your clothes without touching the skin underneath, and exhaled a warm puff of breath on your shoulder. “How did I end up being so lucky?”

It was a familiar question. You forgot what your answer—if any— but right now it was clear as day.

“By being you, I’m certain.”

Somehow, without anything particularly humorous, more weird noises were made.

Lips were pressing devoutly on your clothed arm; once, twice, and one last time before Robert crawled up to your shoulder and crowded you in a protective blanket of warmth. His laughter died down into raspy breaths, weak and trembling, a contrast to the way his eyes gleamed as they flicked up to meet yours. A thread of a smile was tugging at his mouth until it grew again into another toothy grin; a contrast to the way his hand firmly took your phone and placed it on the table.

“Are we not talking?” you shakily rasped, swallowing a thick lump in your throat. It was a futile question but it had to be asked.

“It’s all details from here, c’mon,” groaned the older man as he went up, pressing his nose into the soft hair behind your ear. “Just, let me do this first, please.”

One of his hands reached out for yours and laced the fingers together while the other wrapped itself around your neck. The setting sun had started painting the entire living room with violet, golden-red rays giving warmth to Robert’s brown skin. It was not yet dark in the room, but it certainly felt like it with him crowding you and pressing closer.

“Fuck, I’m the luckiest bastard.” whispered your lover, pausing as if he couldn’t believe the words coming out from his mouth, and then shaking his head while sighing with wonder. “Fuck.”

“I’d like to think I’m the luckiest here for having you, thank you very much,” you said while giving a little shrug.

Robert’s breath was warm and ragged on your skin, needy with a sprinkling of aggravation. The unevenness of it made your nerves blared little fireworks all over your body, made worse when his cock started rubbing against your thigh, the growing wet patch so visible through the thin fabric of his sweats.

“I’m really proud of you. For everything. Fuck, you’re probably the last person in this earth who need any of my approval but—”

He kissed you full in the mouth, heavy and begging; a sinner reaching out towards penance.

You did the best thing you could think at that point and closed your eyes, letting the rest of your senses feast on the way his tongue slipped through. The faintest hint of chocolate blended with the firmness of arm muscles. A sharp inhale brought in the heaviness of musk and fabric softener, blocking the rest of the world with a primal drumming sound that vibrated through your entire body. Every single one of your cells fought so hard against shivering, yet they all sighed with relief upon losing.

The hand around your neck started trailing down, a dance of fingers light enough to be called a whisper until it started fiddling at the bottom edge of your clothes, nudging them up before letting the fabric drop again into your lap. Your hardening cock was pointedly ignored.

“Do something for me?” he asked, almost a murmur.

“What?” your throat managed to shiver out. One of your free hands started moving up, attempting to clutch the teasing hand before a swift motion made him clasp your hand instead, painless yet ironclad.

“’s not hard.” One corner of his lips curled up crooked yet soft, making it look hopeful. “Let your voice out. Don’t think about anyone, anything; don’t even think about me.”

Adam’s apple bobbing, your head darted left and right, looking for a dog that wasn’t here.

“Not her too,” confirmed Robert. A little bit of red had crept up to his cheeks. “Haven’t had my fix of you for today. Help me?”

As if a promise, one of his hands released your fingers to play with your waistband. Another inhale was all it took to have hunger rolled in tidal waves, carried by a scent that could only come from one man alone. Words tried rising to the surface yet all that came out were his name, panted between harsh gasps like a chant.

“Yeah, babe,” he said, slipping a finger up and down your navel. “Wanna hear your voice, just like that.”

“I take it you’re really hellbent on milking all sort of embarrassing sounds,” you hissed.

Angling your neck brought you to a sight of him grinning. “Y’know, that’s an interesting choice of word,” said the older man, humming low as if pondering. “You okay if I do exactly that?”

“Exactly that—“

“Milking.”

“Oh, God,” you rasped out.

“Let me take care of you, buddy,” he whispered into your ear, running a tongue through it. The hovering wetness drew a stifled noise from your lungs. "I promise it'll be good."

As an answer, you nudged your head slightly up, giving him a peck on his cheeks: a _carry on_ , a yes. “Of course I will. Just—just don’t make me scream too much, please?”

You were rewarded with more kisses from your lover, hungry and vicious, growing unbridled with each pressing of lips until you were left without breath. Robert lifted your body up with a mighty heft, turning it around and dropping it like a pillow right in front of him, in-between his lap, pulling it even closer until your back were practically pressing into him. “If I do it right, you’ll do more than just scream, babe,” he said in a lusty snigger.

Slowly, Robert slid his hands down, palming your cock over your sweats while curling his shoulders inward like he was trying to get his whole body around you. His whole body was warmth and heat, slowly seeping through and unfurling the remaining tensions in your muscles until you were lax and boneless in his arms.

Wandering mouth started sucking along the curve of your neck until it found your shirt collar. Unveiling your bare shoulder, the older man proceeded to give a flick of his tongue before sucking your skin out loud, releasing all the pressure inside you in an unintentionally loud gasp that made him rumble deeply against your back. One of his hands started sneaking up with intent inside your clothes; palm flat against your torso before it dragged the hem and bunched the fabric up in a messy ball. The other continued to move down and teased the perineum through the sweats.

With lips still hovering around bare skin, Robert let out a deep and throaty laugh. “Like it this way, bud? Think you could cum just from it?”

“Stop playing.” Impatient, you gave the warm skin on his neck a little nip, feeling the subtle tremor as your tongue bristled against his stubble. He already tasted a little bit salty and it would only get worse as this went on. The prospect excited you, and it apparently also excited him from the way his hand immediately sneaked inside.

A little sleight of hand, and you abruptly released a loud and shameless moan when he finally, _finally_ freed your tortured cock from its soft prison. “I live to serve,” he whispered, wrapping the calloused warmth around your length, thumb brushing soft over the head and sending a bolt of electricity snapping across all your nerves.

Your head tilted until it pressed on a broad shoulder, boneless while Robert stroked you off in a steady pattern. The movement was so driven, different from all the times when handjobs were just the appetizer. Shaping his fist into a tight ring, the older man twisted and turned his wrist mercilessly while his other hand moved up and down; rubbing the perineum, fondling the balls, brushing from one nipple to another, even the occasional fingering.

Words were scrambled from your brain and your entire being seemed to tremble as his name got choked inside your throat. The earthiness of his sweat rushed in to fill any space not occupied by the pleasure. Behind you, the hardening bulge inside his pants started pushing impatiently against your ass, a situation you took full advantage of by rolling your hips in lazy circles until a loud groan broke free from his throat.

“Fuck, that’s how it’s going to be, huh? Gonna make this thing really loud?” asked Robert while burying his face on your shoulder, sounding so wicked and endearing at the same time.

Drawing one hand to reach behind him, you wordlessly found purchase around the back of his head, fingers clutching desperately at his hair before giving them a gentle pull.

Abruptly, one of his nails pressed itself deep on your chest while the older man introduced teeth at this point and it was—unfair, you decided, in the miniscule gap it took between feeling the tight pressure and the sudden, squirming gasp you let out while arching your back.

“Fuck,” he hissed, then repeated it once again when one of your nails pressed itself deep on his thigh. “ _Fuck_.”

The pressure only seemed to drive Robert harder, stroking and twisting a nipple until tension started coiling inside you, vibrating steady between the warm air you shared with him. Your legs were shaking, and you didn’t even realize you were hissing and biting your lips until he nibbled your neck.

“Words, buddy,” he rasped through clenched teeth.

Right now, all your senses were desperately chasing all the friction brought by the man behind you. His hands were both wet and slick as they dragged your sweats even lower. “I’m close,” you managed to breathe out.

He was right; it was more than just screaming. It was a matter of short, shallow gasps that grew into desperate sobs when his thumb mercilessly rubbed on the tip of your cock. Sharp grunts tapering into needy whimpers. The thinning edge in his laughter; the raw pleasure in his voice when you twisted your hips just the right way.

It was a matter of him murmuring right into your ears: a deep “You like it, babe?” or a throaty “Yeah, keep going.”

It was the tinge of satisfaction in his voice and how good it sounded with your desperation.

It was the way his breath got harsher with each minute. Little shocks blooming into a long moan. Hungry growls as you continued nibbling his neck and the satisfied hum you gave as a result.

All sorts of sounds, shameless and wanton, but also freeing and exhilarating. One last push towards the shore, getting closer with each thrust, more erratic and more shallow, more and more and more.

Robert spread one of his legs a bit further and thrusted his hips wildly forward with a loud grunt. The two of you were briefly lifted off the couch, pushing your entire length towards his warm, slick, tightening fingers. Everything felt so obscenely good you released a sharp crackling sound.

 “I’ve got you, babe,” grunted your lover, giving a final twist of his wrist. “”s okay, cum for me, let go.”

A sharp thrust, one strangled cry, and release came like a wave crashing into the shore, sweeping over your entire senses as everything dissolved into white.

Thick ropes of fluid started shooting out onto Robert’s hands, the couch, the floor, but you would only realize all these later after your awareness began to return.

And then you felt the hardness still rubbing against the small of your back.

Blinking through the dizziness, you turned around, kneeling on the sofa to saw — _him_ , hair even more of a mess, flushing red and sweating bullets. Slowly, almost absently, Robert brought his hands up to his lips, licking and sucking each finger clean the way he did with the spoon earlier. He relished each flavor like it was the first time, ignoring his own straining bulge inside his pants, hard and damp.

When Robert looked at you, it was with a gaze stripped clean from childish delight and wicked charm, a gaze that felt naked without looking like it. “Hey,” he croaked before surging upwards, boring into your eyes and hastily pulling out his cock. “Ain’t gonna last long, buddy. Just—“

Whatever your lover was about to say was abruptly cut with a long, broken moan when your hand moved down to stroke him off.

“Robert,” you said, voice so thick it was almost unrecognizable while entangling your other hand in his sweat soaked hair. “Let me help?”

Wordlessly, the older man leaned forward and grabbed your shoulders, giving you full rein of his pleasure.

“I got you,” you said, wielding the honor with the utmost joy.

It was a beloved territory on a beloved man, and without being entirely aware you had known so much of it to work around the little obstacles. With your other hand, playing properly with his balls and perineum might be impossible but you could still give them an occasional touch every now and then, flickering your fingers over his inner thigh. Sure, there was no lube, but you could always do what he did and smeared your hand around the copious amount of precum leaking from the top.

Using your shoulder as support, Robert started thrusting his hips back and forth. His brows were furrowed and his eyes would shut themselves tight, teeth barely clenching for the fraction of a second.

Matching his pace, you pumped his cock in slowly increasing speed, stopping every now and then to feel his hips bucking wildly to chase the fading release. Rubbing your thumb across the tip, you moved down to give the base a gentle squeeze, nudging the meeting point between the shaft and the scrotum to make Robert tense up and gasp in barely restrained pleasure.

A slightest hint of a fingernail hovered just at the bottom of the glans—a risky move, but so worth it when the hiss Robert made was not one of pain. His movement started getting more ragged and primal. “Harder,” he demanded. “Faster.”

After making sure that all surfaces involved were slick enough to avoid irritation, you stopped teasing and started jerking him off for real. Tightening the pressure at this time would still be enough to bring him over the edge, but you knew to add a little pressure around the tip to draw the most beautiful sounds from the older man; frayed, pleading, _helpless_.

Overwhelmed, one of his hands moved down to claw at your shirt. Warm puffs of air were blowing against your cheek as he opened his mouth in a silent scream of pleasure. It was something you could never see in any other time or place—it was a look of surrender.

“Like this—keep going like this,” he said with a fraying voice.

The growing scent of his exertion got increasingly sweeter and heavier and a moan escaped your throat as you pressed your face and breathed in the damp skin, filling your senses until the world narrowed into this man in front of you.

Robert started grunting your name like a prayer. “Fuck, you’re so—look at you. Just fucking look at you.”

“So good for me, Robert,” you whispered among other encouragement and praises, raining every spot you could reach with kisses.

“Love you,” he whimpered. “God—“

“Love you too,” you said. The hand curling around his hair slowly tightened its grip and you could feel Robert sucking in a sharp air, body tensing in anticipation. “You’re absolutely magnificent. I love watching you like this.”

“Fuck, fu—ah, fuck—“ His hips bucked erratically forward as the older man craned his head up, wordlessly pleading for your lips. It was too good to refuse and, sharply yanking his hair, you gave his cock one tight squeeze before swallowing the sounds of surrender your lover howled as the huge cock in your hand started pulsing.

Robert curved into you, shooting jets of thick release all over your clothes once, twice, thrice, with a few splattered on the sofa and joining the dark spots made by your own orgasm. Heaving, and with tongue slightly hanging out, he slumped forward into your shoulder to catch his breath.

Some of the last, weaker spurts started gathering in your palm; a pool of pearly cum, musky and strong and delicious as always. A shameless groan from your lover brought a new set of fingers to clean, rough and tasting of your cum and his, a seed of an idea finally blooming into its salty-sweet culmination.

It tasted like a vision reached.

You cradled Robert’s head until he released his grip on your shirt. With a sated sigh, he carelessly sank into the sofa and pulled you towards him, shifting around until the two of you were splayed across the cushions in a delicious mess. Your awareness dimly registered the absence of sound, leaving your breathings while they softened into a stable, harmonious rhythm.

The air was cold against your still-bare crotch and you shivered, but instead of adjusting your sweats, Robert lazily wrapped his limbs around to warm you up. He wiped his hands all over your shirt while also rubbing his now-sated cock with yours, the organ twitching valiantly upon brushing against the rough pubic hair. It made him moan contently and lolled his head to a side, smiling smugly.

Hugging a huge, hot, and horny heater indeed.

“We should get up,” you said without moving an inch.

“Yeah, we should,” replied the older man, blinking slow and deliberate at you before resting his hands on your back. The air was reeking of the sweet pungency from cum, musk, and drying sweat.

“Our clothes are going to be a crusty mess.” One of your fingers stroked back a stray lock of hair from his sweaty forehead. “And it has to happen now of all times.”

“It’s _fine_. Not like we’re going to wear ‘em again,” he said, mouthing the words against the underside of your jaw. “Though I s’pose you’d want me to keep it even longer, won’tcha. Keep me rank and ripe.”

You took a deep, ravenous inhale, and hummed in thought. “I don’t know. Taking a shower with you also sounds tempting.”

Robert clicked his tongue. “We don’t even fuck there.”

“But we sing such a nice duet.”

“That we are,” said Robert with a crooked grin. So cute, enough to make you forget the coldness of today. “That we are.”

The little peck you gave was soon returned with a number of strong kisses. “Come to think about it, we also need to unload the washing machine.” Kiss. “And then we have to take Betsy next door.” Kiss. “And then dinner.” Kiss, kiss, and more kisses until he cradled the back of your head and gave it a massage.

“Stop speaking,” grumbled Robert in amusement.

Chuckling softly, you rested your head on his broad chest.

======

After dinner (“I could never understand how you can survive eating just _once_ , Robert.” “Well, I ain’t no polar bear for one. Also with a life like mine you just learn to be efficient.”), you were cuddled up with Robert, squeezing each other to fit in the small old couch.

The backdoor was opened to let Betsy play on her own so you bundled yourself up in layers. A thermos filled with hot tea was placed within arm’s reach. Spooning you from behind was your lover who, by wearing a thick black sweater in stark contrast with last night, vindicated your discomfort against today’s cold air. His menthol bodywash mingled nicely with the freshness of newly washed clothes, just as delectable as the depraved smell of sex.

A soft female voice crooned in soothing French you’d never heard before, sounding like a lover’s murmur and adorned with a gentle caress from a trio of drum, saxophone, and piano playing in the background.

On your phone screen, the success of your voyage had wrought some much needed clarity. It was painfully clear that Damien and his woes were never a reflection of your fears. That sense of distance changed the overall tone of the conversation, making it less of a problem to solve and more of a heart-to-heart.

Just two individuals, similarly in love and similarly troubled for different reasons.

Despite your explicit permission, Robert never tried peeking at your phone, closing his eyes instead as if trying to steal another few hours of nap. His hands were contently resting against the well-worn softness of your hoodie, and you felt nothing but warmth all over.

At least before a new message arrived and—

“Well, ain’t that fun,” you muttered.

Your lover’s response was to crack one eye open, focusing at the back door gaping open before turning towards the bright screen.

> **Mary Christiansen:** I think you owe me a quid pro quo after the sappy shit you just subjected me to.
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** See, the other nerd just texted me
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** There’s no way in hell I’m playing a hostage negotiator again so you get to be one instead
> 
> **You:** Wait what
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** Already told him, by the way
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** Tell Smalls we’re still on
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** Toodles~

Robert barked a laugh, good-natured with a dash of I-told-you-so.  

“I’ve watched enough romcom to know where this is going,” you sighed. “I defy this trope and the shenanigans it carries. _I defy_.”

“A bit too late for all that, buddy,” said the older man as he gave your shoulder a slightest nudge with his nose, lazy yet one hundred percent awake and aware. “Just lean the fuck in and be the best nosy neighbor archetype to ever exist.”

“I suspect a misrepresentation coming from you, Mr. Small.”

“And you just realized this? Damn, Mary’s right.” In an exaggerated rage against the heavens, Robert clenched both fists and raised them up. “Hard work doesn’t pay.”

Despite his antics, you found yourself smiling. It bloomed into a little laugh, almost inaudible if not for the relative silence, fond and overflowing deep within the very core of your being. Robert’s lips were pressing on your hair, his chest was swaying slow and easy, and you proceeded to shift a bit before burrowing your face into the soft fuzziness of his sweater. Time started to blur while you just let yourself revel in this feeling, and the warm echoes of smiles and laughter were crystallized into a concept-like understanding, a memory unsullied by context and the ravages of time.

Another snapshot of happiness, subduing the coldness of winter and bathed in the sweet smell of coffee, cherished simply for existing.

The lighthouse.

Glory be, you had turned into a melodramatic romance protagonist. And of course, if that were to be a case, it could only mean one thing and one thing only.

Slowly, after letting out a soft giggle, you propped your head up on one elbow and gave Robert a quick peck. The older man gave you a curious look, lips twitching a bit upon noticing your widening grin.

“I just realized that you’re right.” The words came out strangled, and by the time you finished you were giggling obnoxiously. “I did end up touching a throbbing manhood today.”

This time, Robert caught the meaning immediately and groaned in frustration. “Stay away from me, you monster,” he said, pushing you bit by bit until you rolled down to the floor before climbing off the couch.

Your hysterical giggling didn’t stop, blowing more and more until you clutched your sides and bowled over the floor, not even caring when the older man smacked your head again with a throw pillow. You could already feel the troubles of today sinking into the depths of your subconscious, where it would presumably remain for a while before dissipating entirely.

Indeed, when you looked back in the future, today would just be a day full of laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next is the promised log between Dadsona and Damien, as well as the end of Damien's particular subplot! I feel like he deserves his own spotlight.


	6. Interim: Cool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pinpointing his exact approach remained a riddle with no answers. Even worse were any attempts to predict Hugo’s reaction.
> 
> In short, Damien didn’t know what he was doing. That was certainly a most unpleasant sentence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're getting to chatfic realm. _If_ this can be called a chatfic.
> 
> This chapter shifts the perspective onto Damien and Hugo while also expanding Dadsona's conversation with Damien.  
> I apologize for the language. Read it and you'll see why.

Damien Bloodmarch tried not to squint at the complete whiteness sneering right in front of him, fingers tapping on the keyboard as he typed a few stray words.

~~Beloved Hugo,~~

~~Dearest Hugo,~~

~~Hugo, my love, the bearer of my heart,~~

Inadequate offerings to an inadequate creation, all of these; incomplete, imperfect.

The screen was cleared for the fiftieth time and Damien leaned back on his work chair until it swiveled loudly. His fretful sleep last night may not affect his mind or demeanor, but the lethargy was lead on his body. He felt as dormant as the rest of the office.

Like every winter before, the company was half-dead, keeping only a skeleton crew to keep watch while sending the rest across the busier parts of the state. As proof, there were only three problems listed on the large screen at the right wall of the room, a considerably tame amount for this late in the day. All of those meant an easy workday and most of his co-workers had taken full advantage of it, playing mobile games and slacking around, but Damien couldn’t really share the enthusiasm. Part of it was his Victorian-inspired ethics, carried in spirit if not in person, but some cowardly part of him also secretly wanted more work as distraction.

As it was, with failure still weighing so heavy on his back, Damien switched programs to his work e-mail and began dealing with the meager support tickets there were, asking question after question the system administrator knew by heart before heading out from his wretched throne. He needed to exhaust himself. Lucien had remarked on the darkness under his eye this morning. He should get more rest. It would be disappointing for a father to provide such an example on his son—and Ernest too, if Damien was permitted to be preposterous.

Everything remained just as it was; a halcyon state neither stressful nor boring much to his disappointment. Soon there were no more tickets and he ended up only taking his lunch an hour late, alone.

In the break room, Damien had to resist slumping into one of those rickety chairs, but he did release an uncharacteristic groan unrelated to the state of the small space.

(Despite the best efforts from the blameless janitor, a sharp aroma from the combination of various foods seemed to stick on the surfaces and never truly disappeared. Damien always had a pack of wet wipes ready for cleaning the acrylic table once more.)

Several stacks of vegetarian sandwiches he bought were unwrapped and munched idly, seemingly flavorless as he took out the small leather journal Hugo had given to him.

Its design may not be Victorian but its craftsmanship and simplicity was more than enough to mask the discrepancy. On most of the pages, system error codes were listed neatly on one side while the other was reserved for any important plans him, Lucien, or Mary were having. These days Hugo and Ernest would appear more and more often in the list, such as:

  * _Finals are approaching. Make sure Lucien studies, and make sure Lucien made sure Ernest studies (what is Ernest’s learning style? Does he need a review?). Also remember to ask ( ~~A visit? Greeting Card?~~ Text?) Craig for recipes for smoothies. Hugo’s eye bags are reaching particularly concerning levels._
  * _Be supportive. Be accommodative and tolerant of mistakes. Be perceptive of his mood, health, and general awareness. Aid him in as much housework as possible—do not repeat last semester’s mistakes. Help grading, if possible. Listen if he needs to vent; remember that you understand nothing about a teacher’s hardship, and finals are different for teachers than they are for students. And on that vein, remember to keep checking on Lucien and Ernest._
  * _This week’s trivia night is superhero-themed. Double-check with Hugo if it has any specific restrictions and look for superhero-themed makeup tutorials just in case. ~~Consider wearing a paired shirt~~ (or not. That would be demanding in so many unpleasant ways.)_
  * _Ernest’s birthday is next month. ~~Clear all schedules~~ (or rather, make certain of his plans before altering any schedule. Maybe ask Lucien and/or Hugo for insider information) Regarding presents, be **absolutely** certain there is zero chance of accidentally upstaging his fathers._



Its latest ten pages, however, were a different beast filled with scratched-out drafts of poetry and letter and flower names, going down the entire paper before circling around the blank border. Lines of what would have been a letter were crossed with a steady stroke.

In retrospect, he had been thinking nonsense. Writing a letter clear enough to express his thoughts and consideration would require what could be seen as an uncomfortable amount of polish. That would make little difference with outright dishonesty.

Without intending it, Damien spent his entire lunch break filling two more pages with more uncertainty. Flowers were too limited and letters were too intricate. Almost all of the available Valentine-themed events are not to Hugo’s taste, or his. Although more gifts were not necessarily unwelcomed, it did nothing about his first gift. Further torrents of misunderstanding were the last thing they needed after what his recklessness had brought. No; Hugo deserved something proper and pure, something _right_.

More flawed ideas were written and eliminated until the whole page was crossed out.

Desperation led Damien back in his office, continuing the research that stole his sleeping hours for the last few days. The search results were already in their fiftieth-or-so page, where suspicious Russian websites were mingling with years-defunct blogs. Searching for wrestling images showed a parade of painful angles and skintight outfits. Most forums and message boards made him flinch. A couple of streaming sites were opened in their own tabs together with dating guides modern and archaic. Damien’s scowl was etched on his face, seemingly permanent.

At this rate, everything seemed to reek with a faint stench of dishonesty. It might be his own.

Damien’s lack of aptitude would be easily solved with Mary’s time-tested wisdom of _shut up and just fake it ‘til you make it, Dames._ But right now he couldn’t establish any strategic goal to his actions and anything he do would therefore remain fundamentally ignorant, like coding a program without understanding the language.

The latter felt much more dangerous in so many ways. Pinpointing his exact approach remained a riddle with no answers. Even worse were any attempts to predict Hugo’s reaction.

In short, Damien didn’t know what he was doing. That was certainly a most unpleasant sentence.

He was deep in his research when his newest neighbor sent him a message through Dadbook.

======

> **You:** So, I might need some help. Do you have any ideas for Valentine’s Day?
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** Dearest
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** I apologize, I accidentally sent the message before I could write anything of value.
> 
> It is impolite of me, but I shall beg your willingness to wait until I can write a proper reply for you.
> 
> **You:** …Is everything alright?
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** Within a specific meaning of alright, yes. But I am in dire need of clarity, and therefore will need more time to properly compose my thoughts.
> 
> **You:** I understand and have no objection to your request, Damien, especially because I am currently not in a position to have a proper conversation myself.
> 
> **You:** Please, kindly take your time.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** I appreciate your understanding.

======

> **Damien Bloodmarch:** Dearest friend and neighbour,
> 
> First and foremost, I shall give you the most sincere of my apologies, least of which is the atrocity pertaining to both method and timeliness of this reply. Were I to have my way, you shall receive this in a properly written letter where I could explain myself in much clarity. We may even have this talk in person where we could find comfort in the voice and presence of each other.
> 
> Unfortunately, I am still at work where it continues to demand my time and attention, and only now can I find the occasional slice of respite to give you a proper response.
> 
> But it is my hesitation to suggest anything which takes the primary share of this letter. I have been pacing and fretting and, assuming my presumptuousness is correct and the question you posited is intended for yourself and Robert, it would have been hubris to offer my assistance when the same conundrum still plagued my mind.
> 
> Not to mention, I must remorsefully admit of lacking the necessary closeness to make any educated guess regarding what our neighbour would find favorable in a gift. It would be possible, for instance, to start with a general claim that food is something most people would enjoy, but I would find myself stumbling to figure out the specifics of it.
> 
> However, our overlapping situations made me incapable to ignore the plea for help in your message. Thus, while words cannot take away the sting of refusal, I can inform my dear Mary of your present plight if you ever wish it. Her temperament is of a practical kind, and her competence and closeness to Robert would make her the help I shamefully cannot be.
> 
> I shall wait for your reply no matter the words. Knowing you, they would not be anything beyond what I deserved.
> 
> Begging your forgiveness,
> 
> Damien Bloodmarch
> 
> **You:** Damien, I appreciate your reply and the honesty you are giving to me. An advice given with carelessness is potentially more damaging than its absence so there really is nothing for me to forgive. Your choice to remain silent has helped me more than otherwise.
> 
> **You:** And you are also heard, Damien, and you are definitely not alone. In fact, I must admit to find myself heartened by our similarities.
> 
> May I also be so candid to assume that we are talking about our other neighbor here?
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** It is indeed futile for me to pretend otherwise. Yes, I am talking about one Hugo Vega.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** He is so cool
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** Oh no
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** I am sorry
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** I shouldn’t have
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** Oh, this is embarrassing. I apologize.
> 
> **You:** Damien, please, do not feel embarrassed for my sake. It’s very normal to find someone we love very cool.
> 
> **You:** If you could hear the things I thought about Robert… ahahahahaha.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** I would agree with your assessment, if not for the embarrassment coming from my shameless thoughts.
> 
> **You:** What do you mean?
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** Such a candid question, dear friend; one so simple and so compassionate for you to ask, especially when I understand perfectly well my refusal is one deserving of anger and vitriol, and yet I found myself stumbling into answering it. Not because of any perceived rudeness in your question, absolutely not, but because of the
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** I
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** How does the youth say it again?
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** I have feels. An abundance of them.
> 
> **You:** …..I may have heard Amanda saying something like that, yes.
> 
> **You:** What sort of feelings, pray tell?
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** From the beginning, from the first time I saw my beloved, before I could ever call him with such a brazen title, I have long known that our Hugo Vega is a man whose mind is as good as his form, a man of intellect and sophistication beyond anyone I have ever met.
> 
> Needless to say, the common maxim warning us not to judge the book from its cover can sometimes turned out to be an incomplete generalization. As it has happened to me, not only does the cover make a very fine impression, the content only extends and deepens my adoration the longer I take my time to savor each details. Each expectation broken is replaced with a reality so simple and yet so complex, I would never be sure I will have enough time and words to explain it properly.
> 
> His admiration of both modern and classical literature may sounds contradictive when juxtaposed by his other passions, but I can inform you with the utmost certainty that it does not. He is no less attractive in relaxed T-shirts as he is in his teacher’s suit—and this is one point where I have to respectfully ask your understanding not to ask any further, for certain images I must contend to keep it inside my head, never to be shared with anyone.
> 
> To put it simply: Hugo is intense and intelligent and adorable and silly and so unfathomably cool, dearest friend.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** Please excuse the length. Or the lack of clarity. Or, to make things more convenient for you, please just ignore what I just wrote above.
> 
> **You:** ……..Well. I’ll just say that it is both a boon and a horror to hear my plight being voiced with such accuracy. I am blushing fierce right now.
> 
> **You:** I must admit to share the basic framework of your feelings—in sentiment, if not in details— when it comes to Robert.
> 
> **You:** This is why
> 
> **You:** Sorry, Robert was waking up and being a, forgive my bluntness, massive dick.
> 
> **You:** My point stands, however.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** Mind nothing of it; I am just glad the sudden silence bore no disaster.
> 
> Is he with you now, dear friend?
> 
> **You:** Starting to climb the undertow of sleep, yes, and being playfully troublesome with each step taken.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** In such a case, may the day bestow its kindness and excitement for the two of you.
> 
> And if I may give an unsolicited opinion, you shall also receive my unending gratitude for finding him playfully troublesome.
> 
> **You:** Eh? Why?
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** My relationship with Robert is in no way comparable with his closeness to Mary—as I had stated much earlier—and I may therefore miss certain nuances behind his behavior. Nevertheless, I do not have to be an ardent observer to notice the stark differences between the man Robert is right now compared to his past.
> 
> It is, dare I say, a wholesome change, and no one else is responsible for it other than you.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** And I could never thank you enough for it, both as Mary’s companion, and your neighbor.
> 
> **You:** …eh, er…Thanks?
> 
> **You:** But I would reckon that it is better for you to express your gratitude to Robert himself, Damien.
> 
> **You:** Not only will positive affirmations help him establish further confidence in his life direction, I could not say he is changing.
> 
> **You:** Not that I disagree with your remarks! There are differences in his behaviors; good differences.
> 
> **You:** It’s just— for me, the difference seems to be less of a change and more of the consequences of living under a different situation. I still see him as the same man at the core, one I adore regardless of everything.
> 
> **You:** What we are seeing from him might just be who he is with a little less grief and a little more support. And that was all I gave, really: support.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** Ah
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** Indeed a very illuminating perspective, dear friend.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** But
> 
> **You:** Hm?
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** I
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** Do you
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** Are you not afraid
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** Forgive me; what I meant to ask is, to put it simply
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** Are you not afraid of what you may learn?
> 
> **You:** There will always be that fear, of course, but it is a risk I am willing to accept and it is a risk I am capable of minimizing.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** But what if the things you learned ended up widening the gap instead of bridging it?
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** What if our actions failed to reduce the risk, and instead exacerbated it until what was a small spark turned into a forest fire?
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** What if you learned something that changed the way you looked at him?
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** What if you ended up feeling the two of you are
> 
> **You:** Damien?
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** Forgive me, I did not intend to send that fragment and it is not something you should burden yourself with.
> 
> **You:** While your consideration upon my feelings is admirable—and I shall thank you for that—I have suffered an unpleasant bout of worry this morning when I messaged you and now that it is clear that you are in the same need of help as I do, I cannot just stop worrying.
> 
> **You:** If you ask me, I’d rather not spend the rest of my day fretting that there’s something I could have done to help you.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** …Very well. I can indeed see how you would be more well-served by honesty at this point.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** First, a prior acknowledgement is perhaps required before I begin.
> 
> I will be the first to agree that elements of our past are harmful, be that malice or ignorance. Certain values, rituals, and traditions are made for the sake of a small amount of people, oftentimes upheld under the blood, sweat, and tears of others. Being swept away by the ravages of time is the least of what should have happened, and the fact that so much of them still exist—no, flourish—in these days and time hurts me to no end.
> 
> And I am obliged to inform you this because, in contradiction, I find a certain comfort in the tested and true when it comes to celebrations.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** However, a new relationship cannot stubbornly remain as two individuals with two entirely different lives; such a lack of connection is not what I desired.
> 
> Therefore, a change is required. At least a compromise, if not something entirely new.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** Thus I made a sudden purchase of two wrestling tickets for myself and my beloved
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** He was ecstatic, I was thrilled, and that should have been the end of it.
> 
> **You:** And I suppose that is just the beginning?
> 
> **You:** Damien?
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** Forgive me, I was
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** I apologize if I’m speaking too much.
> 
> **You:** What?
> 
> **You:** No
> 
> **You:** I mean—
> 
> **You:** Your feelings are your own, of course, and I shall not impose myself upon you if that is what you wished. But you are not at all speaking too much.
> 
> **You:** (Not to mention that Mary is here right now and my investment towards your well-being have definitely tripled.)
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** …Ah, dearest Mary. So ready to help. So ruthless in her help.
> 
> If you find her words too blunt and wanting any assistance to deal with her, I can always give her a stern talking or two.
> 
> **You:** Thank you for the offer, Damien, but I do get where she’s coming.
> 
> **You:** People like to say that the first step is important, and it does, but what often goes unspoken is what happens after that, and that’s where people like her comes in.
> 
> **You:** I can’t say for the future, but right now I do appreciate the push.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** So am I forever grateful for her presence.
> 
> However, neither can I overstate my appreciation to you, dear friend. I may not be the most forthcoming person and yet you keep giving me nothing but the most compassionate understanding.
> 
> So I shall instead ask you for a quantum of time. Not only for me to return from my work, but also for me to reflect on the despaired words I have written to you. Especially with the understanding that you are also under a not insignificant plight of your own, one of which I will be cruel to ignore.
> 
> And I assure you, by no means should you see this as an affront in any way; it is only appropriate that your offer received at least the same, if not more amount of consideration I had given for your request this morning, and I am fully aware of my divided attention at this moment.
> 
> **You:** Please, do not feel yourself burdened by my offer and just take your time as much as you need. The only request I have is to keep our conversation confined in text, so I can devote my attention to both you and Robert when the time is appropriate.
> 
> **You:** I wish you a safe journey.

======

> **You:** I have a Valentine date!
> 
> **You:** We did kind of stumble around, but we talked about it (amongst others) and sorted things out and!
> 
> **You:** I do apologize for the lack of manners. Everything happened rather unexpectedly, some parts of me are still finding difficulties in accepting how it all unfolds.
> 
> **You:** My most sincere thanks are for you, Damien, because without you I wouldn’t reach this point in this short of a time.
> 
> **You:** Please, if there is any way I can help your situation—please.
> 
> **You:** Now I shall apologize to bother you during your trip back home. Please drive safe.

======

> **Damien Bloodmarch:** The heartiest of congratulations are in order, dear friend, and I shall hope for everything wonderful for you and Robert both.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** As for your offer, even now I must admit of being unwilling yet still to add more to your hands.
> 
> After all the compassion you had so willingly offered, asking more from you felt nothing less than a grave impudence coming from my part, and yet it is also impossible to respond to your offer negatively without feeling like I am the most ungrateful bastard to set foot in this earth, so dismissively refusing an offer of help when my position does not give me any room to make any sort of bargain.
> 
> Either choice reeks with selfishness and I have so little to offer in return.
> 
> **You:** Now I have problems with the last part of your reply, but I can understand where are you coming from.
> 
> **You:** Perhaps we can even simply think of it as commiserating together in shared experience?
> 
> **You:** Or an answer to your earlier questions, at the very least.
> 
> **You:** Again, only if you want it. We can always steer our conversation somewhere else if it is what you wished.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** I think that would be unnecessary.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** I mean, simply put, an answer would be helpful, no matter how unkind it is going to be.
> 
> **You:** Alright.
> 
> **You:** I have no idea if this is going to be kind or not; all I can assure you is that my answer will be my best attempt to explain things the way I see it right now.
> 
> **You:** Am I afraid of what I may learn about Robert?
> 
> **You:** Yes. Absolutely.
> 
> **You:** I will not hesitate to admit of worrying over the future because our relationship have been incredibly charged from my first day moving here
> 
> **You:** I have never felt such attraction with anyone else in my life. Not even Alex. And that phrase alone may sound romantic, but I promise you it felt anything but because HOLY FUCK SO MUCH CAN GO WRONG.
> 
> **You:** In our early relations, it was so hard to find and maintain an appropriate distance, and it was so easy to berate myself for keeping my boundaries intact.
> 
> **You:** The chance is there. It was so easy to reach out and grab it and yet. And yet.
> 
> **You:** Robert… build walls. Not physically and not even intellectually; but emotionally, very much so.
> 
> **You:** With the way his life were shaped back then, it did not take much to see how short term pleasure can be damaging—how it can be unsatisfying for me, even when it might be very satisfying in the more immediate aspects.
> 
> **You:** …..If you know what I mean. (Sex. It means sex.)
> 
> **You:** It’s a really awkward dance that we still end up doing sometimes. Like today.
> 
> **You:** Before, during, and after each and every meeting I would end up asking the very same questions you asked. What if I discovered a red flag?
> 
> **You:** Worse, what if I ignored those?
> 
> **You:** Rose-tinted glasses can make us blind to the red flags and the same thing could very well happen from his side. I do not delude myself by thinking I have no flaws.
> 
> **You:** Robert might hurt me, I might hurt him. We might hurt each other and ourselves at the same time.
> 
> **You:** …And I have long accepted that this feeling may never go entirely; it is a matter of hormones and nervous systems and chemical imbalances. And that might be okay.
> 
> **You:** The more I learned about him, however, the more I realized that most of his flags were never red to begin with. And most importantly, he was aware of those that were. And he kept trying to recover every single day, even as we speak right now.
> 
> **You:** The rest of the flags weren’t all agreeable, no. Differences we do have and already known—we just argued about one yesterday—and recent events revealed just how much I had yet to kniow about him. Or myself, for that matter.
> 
> **You:** But a willingness to learn and grow makes all the differences in the world.
> 
> **You:** And we can always talk about them. For as much as a relationship is built upon acceptance, it is also built upon communication and a shared understanding of each other. I do not regret all that I had done for today, if it means I can learn a little bit more about Robert.
> 
> **You:** And I did learn a little bit more.
> 
> **You:** Bringing back to the topic of changes; I do not think Robert changed as much as simply…. recovered. Or, to be pedantic, entering the process of recovery. I helped, sure; but it was no more than what Mary had provided him in all these years and no one could make him walk through the process if he sees no point in doing so. It is his path and he should be the first one benefitting from it.
> 
> **You:** So yes, in short: There will always be that fear, of course, but it is a risk I am willing to accept and it is a risk I am capable of minimizing.
> 
> **You:** And I do think the same could be said with your situation.
> 
> **You:** And since I’ve been saying too much, and because my bad sense of humor is finding me in a pithy mood for today, have a word of wisdom.
> 
> **You:**   <https://twitter.com/SusanDavid_PhD/status/835176801433489408> (Courage is not an absence of fear; courage is fear walking.)
> 
> **You:** (Wonderful book, by the way. At least if you ever found your heart and mind as something of a burden.)
> 
> **You:** I am done. My deepest gratitude for giving me the space for my rambling.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** No, it would be a grave injustice to call what your words something as senseless as rambling. I can certainly understand the urgent need to, complicated as it can sometimes be, explain a fraught and delicate topic so thoroughly to avoid missing any details, for a stray detail can and does change the context of the situation.
> 
> And I shall return it the best I can.
> 
> **You:** You don’t have to if it’s hard, Damien. This may not be an easy topic to discuss, but I promise writing it was nary a burden for me.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** Nevertheless, I do think we have danced around the core way too long.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** I still remember the exact moment when my excitement gave way to a torrent of worry. Not about Hugo, never him, as torn as my heart seems to be at present. He has repeatedly made his affection and acceptance very clear and how can I not reward that unfailing devotion of his with every single bit of my trust? It is impossible, dear friend, and I hope you will be so kind as not to call me naïve for not exhibiting any carefulness when it comes to my beloved.
> 
> That trust of mine, however, is something that does not come easy, and one I cannot extend anywhere else. And so I found myself asking: how dare I to believe that mingling inside his world is a possibility, much less an entertaining one?
> 
> Mind, this is not a statement of indignation as much as it is an acknowledgement. Not only do I believe my beloved will never participate in a community that spreads hatred and prejudice, the existence of LGBTQ+ peers who found enjoyment in wrestling is well-documented. And given wrestling is but one genre of entertainment amongst many, neither was I making a statement of distaste beyond an admitted lack of interest before I know about Hugo’s.
> 
> Even if we are discussing the specific brand of masculinity often promoted and celebrated there, I am well-aware that there is more than one way to show and express what it meant to be a man. I remain content in my choices.
> 
> Or, to be more exact—I remain content in my choices until now.
> 
> As much as I try, I cannot deny the gaping chasm between that world and myself and it is exactly here where my fear lies in all its vileness; that entering his world will shed a revealing light to all the things I lacked, all the things I stubbornly chose to ignore my entire life. 
> 
> Putting it simply, I fear that epiphany will serve as a catalyst to change how he looks at me.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** Now, the safer option of remain stubbornly steadfast in my tradition would mean ignoring Hugo, and therefore foolish, yet I cannot at the same time cross the bridge to his world without fearing the exposure into harsh reality.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** This is nothing but cowardice and mistrust and I should not let this become a reason to refuse change yet I am stuck here and
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** I’m sorry.
> 
> **You:** Thank you for telling me all this, Damien.
> 
> **You:** I do think a lot of people are reasonably concerned when it comes to situations like these. Valentine’s Day is a complicated celebration with multiple meanings depending on whom you are asking.
> 
> **You:** For some it is a celebration, while others see it as nothing but obligation; something to be fulfilled lest your partner gets mad at you for failing to treat them
> 
> **You:** Even those who are excited about it may do so under different rationale.
> 
> **You:** The difference in expectations and priorities were definitely part of my problems. Robert’s too, it seemed.
> 
> **You:** If someone is looking forward for, say, the presents while their partner just wants to eat good food, there are bound to be broken expectations at some point and time.
> 
> **You:** But I do think this issue of yours goes beyond Valentine’s….?
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** Indeed it is a matter that, upon closer reflection, extends beyond the reach of one single day, no matter how significant that day is. I can even propose a scenario where this problem may turn into a looming spectre for as long as I remain involved with Hugo.
> 
> Theoretically, it may be prudent to see my situation as a problem caused by a flawed programming, be that an underperforming function or a certain bug depending on how we choose to look at the situation. In such an issue, troubleshooting will certainly require an adjustment of my internal codes.
> 
> However, the limitation of time also serves as an additional obstacle.
> 
> The unfortunate fact that I remain a human as opposed to a cyborg prevents this supposed process to be as straightforward as coding a program, and I cannot in good conscience call coding itself something that can be easily executed for that matter.
> 
> It will take months, maybe even years to change my behaviors into the level of satisfaction deserving of my beloved, the kind of perfection good enough to express the depths of my affection.
> 
> Any kind of quick fixes, meanwhile, would just manifest as dishonesty. I refuse to do that.
> 
> **You:** What kind of solutions do you have in mind?
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** Flowers and letters have been considered, before evidence and reason made it clear that both measures are unsatisfactory in depth and intention. With Maple Bay being small and inactive these days, any events available are either fully booked or unsatisfactory for my beloved.
> 
> I am streaming a wrestling match as we speak, and I have been reading a few wrestling blogs, both amateur and professionals, but the result was indeed far from satisfactory.
> 
> And this would be the moment where I bemoaned my lack of initiative in the past, for the situation may have been different if I had chosen to engage Hugo in his pastime sooner.
> 
> **You:** …Fair, but what do you mean by far from satisfactory?
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** Perhaps a comparison would be capable of explaining my meaning better.
> 
> Pray tell, dear friend, have you ever watched a concert or show of any kind?
> 
> **You:** Why, absolutely. Perhaps not in recent years, but I have definitely enjoyed numerous shows.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** Have you, then, watched a recording of such concerts? Perhaps even the same show?
> 
> **You:** Oh.
> 
> **You:** Oooooooh.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** Indeed so; recordings like these may be good entertainment on themselves but they could never match the feeling of enjoying a live concert, be that pleasant or otherwise.
> 
> **You:** And are those sensations the sources of your concern?
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** A significant part of them, yes, for I have no idea about anything that may happen outside the ring, which brings us to Mary’s idea: buying another ticket to an earlier show and directly familiarizing myself with the environment without Hugo, therefore removing the core to my worry.
> 
> **You:** That sounds good.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** Indeed it does, if I do not have to go to Boston to do so.
> 
> **You:** Oh….
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** And this is the point where I bemoan myself for making so late a planning, for Mary’s idea may feel less painful for me if there is enough time.
> 
> So many mistakes I have made. So much ignorance I have exhibited.
> 
> As it is, however, taking such options now felt like hiding from the risk of discovery from my beloved.
> 
> While Mary, being the practical friend that she is, selflessly offered her companionship with sufficient enough reason not to evoke suspicion, I co
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** I could not entertain the slightest idea of actively hiding things from Hugo.
> 
> **You:** In such a case, Damien; if I may ask a question;
> 
> **You:** Have you talked to Hugo about your woes?
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** And risk offending him?
> 
> As much as I understand where you are coming from, my friend, I’m afraid I must draw a line and admit my inability to do so.
> 
> I have been trying to find ways to express my message to him, but everything remains inadequate.
> 
> **You:** …Mind explaining why?
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** Under the reasons I just explained you before this, it may have been too late to do anything worthwhile about this woe of mine.
> 
> Yet simultaneously, complaining to Hugo right now would serve nothing except burdening him with problems that are petty at best.
> 
> And yes, I do recognize the irony and hypocrisy of saying such self-righteous a sentence after all our conversation.

======

> **Mary Christiansen:** I think you owe me a quid pro quo after the sappy shit you just subjected me to.
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** See, the other nerd just texted me
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** There’s no way in hell I’m playing a hostage negotiator again so you get to be one instead
> 
> **You:** Wait what
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** Already told him, by the way
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** Tell Smalls we’re still on
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** Toodles~

======

> **Hugo:** Hey.
> 
> **Hugo:** Sorry for the really late reply. School’s been busy and then I was…kinda occupied.
> 
> **Hugo:** .....So you talked to Mary.
> 
> **You:** Yeah. Don’t worry about me, really. How are you faring yourself?
> 
> **Hugo:** More than a bit nervous.
> 
> **Hugo:** Damien bought us tickets to a wrestling match. My favorite, no less.
> 
> **You:** That’s good!
> 
> **Hugo:** He’s so sweet.
> 
> **Hugo:** But I worry he’ll find the entire thing as…not to his taste.
> 
> **Hugo:** Or the form of entertainment.
> 
> **You:** I really feel you. But Damien knows you like wrestling, doesn't he?
> 
> **Hugo:** He does, yes, but he never asked any further
> 
> **Hugo:** And to be fair, I…never offered.
> 
> **You:** What
> 
> **You:** Why
> 
> **You:** You invited –me- to a wrestling match??
> 
> **Hugo:** It’s—complicated.
> 
> **Hugo:** Not to say anything about you, but Damien is…Damien, you know?
> 
> **Hugo:** I mean, just the fact that he’s not disgusted by my interest is more than what I can ask these days
> 
> **Hugo:** And besides, having independence within a relationship is a good thing. I don’t plan to be THAT couple who’s always together at everything
> 
> **Hugo:** But at the same time passive tolerance is a whole different level from active participation.
> 
> **Hugo:** What if he hates going there? Worse, what if he just smiled while secretly hating it inside?
> 
> **Hugo:** You can tell I’m overthinking.
> 
> **You:** I hear you, again. Especially the overthinking part.
> 
> **You:** Have you talked to him about this, though?
> 
> **Hugo:** How do I do that at this point? “Dear, I’m so happy for the ticket you gave me, but are you sure you like it?”
> 
> **Hugo:** Even my ex aren’t that rude.
> 
> **You:** ….Hugo.
> 
> **Hugo:** I know, I know. Overthinking
> 
> **Hugo:** I think we tend to be too focused on ‘what to give’ that we ended up losing our sight of what’s important.
> 
> **Hugo:** Is the preparation more important than love itself?
> 
> **You:** Hugo.
> 
> **Hugo:** I am thinking about the biblical Mary and Martha, and I really, really wanted not to become Martha.
> 
> **Hugo:** Of course, if they think of indie wrestling as hypermasculine and uncultured, then it is what it is.
> 
> **Hugo:** Since when love ever survives without failure?
> 
> **Hugo:** Failure and struggle is how we grow and how we learn about ourselves and each other.
> 
> **Hugo:** It’s just going to be another lesson in the longer run.
> 
> **You:** Hugo.
> 
> **Hugo:** People have their own life and interest and they are free to share it with their partners, but
> 
> **You:** HUGO
> 
> **You:** ERNEST’S DAD
> 
> **Hugo:** Sorry.
> 
> **Hugo:** I really have spent too much time thinking.
> 
> **You:** No, that part is alright. It’s just….your words will probably be more helpful if you say it to Damien himself?
> 
> **Hugo:** I know, and I really want to. I really do.
> 
> **Hugo:** But maybe I should just leave this thing alone.
> 
> **Hugo:** These kinds of little disagreements just builds up, you know?
> 
> **Hugo:** Trust me. Been there, done that.

======

> **You:** …Mary, if you’re going to kill me, can you at least make sure my organs are donated to charity? So at least I’m not dying in vain?
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** Im sry the number ur txtin is too fuckin shitfaced to speak
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** Don’t leave a msg
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** U’ll b fine bud
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** I trust u
> 
> **You:** …Thank you, but fine is a word with multilayered nuance here, Robert
> 
> **You:** Would it be fine if I proverbially won the battle but lose the war? Or if I won the war with severe casualties?
> 
> **You:** I’m just worried someone’s gonna be hurt
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** So step back
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** U don’t have to play the hero all day
> 
> **You:** Can I?
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** Gd question
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** Spose u took a step back
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** Whats gonna happen
> 
> **You:** …In my head, it’s gonna blow up romcom style….or worse. But that is in my head and you know how trustworthy it is.
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** I like ur head
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** I trust ur head
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** Better than mine at least
> 
> **You:** …I’m just going to say thank you for the time being.
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** Ur welcome
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** But if trusting urself is hard then u can trust them
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** Bloodmarch and vega r adults they can sort out their shit
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** They’re not me.
> 
> **You:** Ixnay on the self loathing.
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** And ixnay on the overthinking
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** They’re gonna live
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** And so will u
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** Actually correction
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** Mary says she knows someone in the black market
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** And shes promising me a big cut
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** Sorry bud
> 
> **Mary Christiansen:** Rest in peace as they say

======

> **You to Hugo, Damien Bloodmarch:** I think you need to talk to each other. And by that I mean now, or at least soon, not after everything have blown up
> 
> **You to Hugo, Damien Bloodmarch:** Don’t get me wrong I’d be glad to listen to you as much as necessary, but…
> 
> **You to Hugo, Damien Bloodmarch:** If I may be blunt, you’re underestimating his tolerance.
> 
> **You to Hugo, Damien Bloodmarch:** Because miscommunication is only enjoyable in romcoms.
> 
> **You to Hugo, Damien Bloodmarch:** And as far as this outsider can attest, there is no doubt in my heart that the two of you mature and intelligent men can avoid a whole load of unnecessary pain by cutting the middle man.
> 
> **You to Hugo, Damien Bloodmarch:** But I understand if you’re scared. There are a lot of important, cherished things at stake.
> 
> **You to Hugo, Damien Bloodmarch:** And you don’t have to agree with me, just…think about it?

======

Damien stared at the messenger window for a few seconds. It was quiet, with only the sound of crackling fire accompanying him. Lucien and Ernest were going off to watch a movie. If there was ever a perfect time to have a private talk with Hugo, this would be it. If he had the ability to do so.

On the side window, one of the many illegal sites he had discovered continued to stream a wrestling match silently. A fit blonde with strong arms was lifting her opponent up in the air before slamming her down hard enough to make the black-haired wrestler bounce. The crowd seemed…riotous. Shutting down the sounds was absolutely detrimental as far as familiarizing himself was concerned. He needed it to think more smoothly, though; maybe that was what he needed to do. More time to think.

He started composing his reply.

~~It is way too early to talk to Hugo about this~~

~~Dear friend, as much as I appreciate your kind words, perhaps there are alternative methods I have not considered and~~

~~There must have been~~

“No, no, no.” Damien grunted a few times and deleted them all. “Denying the most logical solution at this point would be nothing more but plain stubbornness.”

He had tried everything he could think about, searched for things known and unknown, perused Mary’s assistance to its limit, and even selfishly took advantage of his friend and neighbor to sort out his thoughts and emotions. His mental faculties had turned into a contradictory series of nerves. Pretending the answer was anywhere else but in Hugo had stopped being effective.

So Damien abruptly stood before he could talk himself out of it. Hesitation thrummed madly in his veins in one second and then gone the next, replaced by panic— _he was still wearing his forsaken work uniform_ —and then it, too, dissipated, replaced with an unspeakable urgency to go out and just be done with everything. That feeling lasted a bit longer until the moment Damien grabbed his cape and was about to leave his house, at which this particular urge also crumbled into pieces.

He probably should change if he wanted to deliver a presentable confession.

He probably shouldn’t.

He probably should make sure Lucien would be fine while he’s away.

He probably shouldn’t.

He probably should—

He couldn’t.

He must.

Functioning would be an impossibility if Damien was ever a program, riddled with errors and conflicts as he was, but he is no more or less human than everyone else and living with contradiction is part of the full experience of humanity. So he wrapped the woolen cape tight around him, put on his winter boots, and braved the freezing air outside, striding fast yet aimless past the gargoyles and his hibernating garden—and gasped, when he literally knocked himself into his beloved, almost falling flat into the snow before Hugo’s strong arms pulled him close.

“C-caught you,” said the teacher with clattering teeth. When Damien looked up, Hugo’s brown hair was untied and the luchador posing gregariously on his long-sleeved shirt was wrinkled and wet. He was practically freezing, and yet his smile was blinding. “What are you doing o-out here?”

“Looking for you,” answered Damien, taking his cape off and wrapped it around the other’s broad shoulders. He was torn between smiling and frowning. “What are _you_ doing out here?”

The cape was fastened in a messy loop. He finally decided to frown. There was too much snow.

“So am I.”

“Why?” Something in those words squeezed Damien’s inside, made him drew a sharp breath. “No, wait, this is not a good place to talk. Come, we shall talk in my house.”

“That’s good. Fire’s good.” Hugo clutched Damien’s hands and pressed his lips firmly onto well-cared skin. A futile effort, but Damien felt warmed all the same, hitched his breath all the same.

The actual warmth from his living room failed to thaw out the necessary words, though. Inside the warm space, Hugo released his hand and, as if realizing something, looked awkwardly around the space, a thousand times more stilted than his actual first time visiting. Damien tried to figure out why, but he ended up bothering himself with the creases on his violet work shirt. And the laptop was still streaming in silence. 

_The laptop was still streaming._

With feet covered in house slipper, Damien slowly trudged towards his beloved, knowing full well what he would see. The conversation with his neighbor still took one half of the screen, lacking any new replies while the browser window on the right was now streaming a cage match. It was ridiculous but Damien wanted to blurt out that he now knew what a cage match is.

“Is this our neighbor’s doing?” Hugo asked, voice small and full of tension, pointing a finger at the laptop.

 “N-no,” he replied, doing the absolutely fantastic job of stuttering a one syllable word. “I was doing a research.”

“And…do you like it?” Hugo replied after a long pause filled with him scratching his hair.

It was obvious there was more than curiosity here, but Damien did not know what. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he gave his answer in a slow, careful speech. “It is not what I am used to, but—I have not seen anything particularly offending so far. At the same time, I would be setting an unfair expectation if I fail to mention that my mind is partially occupied when I watched the video, and—”

“Oh thank God,” Hugo almost whimpered with an unexpected soft laugh. From the way he froze, it was an accidental truth.

“Beg pardon?”

Hugo paused, trying to figure out the next words. Opening his mouth and closing it before the teacher took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes roughly with huge palms. “I was afraid. There. I was afraid.”

Surely Damien misheard.

Except not, for Hugo kept speaking. “I thought…I thought you’d be disgusted. By the violence, or the exert masculinity, or the vulgarity, or—I don’t know. I’m thinking too much. Clearly I was wrong.”

There was no way; _absolutely no way_ Damien would feel anything approaching disgust wherever his beloved was concerned. But his senses were cruel in their honesty: Hugo scratched his hair more frantically while his glasses flailed on his grip, a gesture last seen when Duchess Cordelia was missing and Ernest was holding back a sob. His eyes were fixed on the floor and Damien was sure they would be darting all over, searching alone, because he knew his beloved was cursed with the need to have an answer for everything, to be a figure his students and his son could depend on at all times.

Damien had long known about that side of his beloved. Respected the result and admired the effort. He was not surprised to see that same side twisting ugly, because Hugo Vega is also human. Intense and intelligent and adorable and silly and so unfathomably cool.

What he did not expect was how much he was adding to the distress.

If it was the past, and Damien was the naïve man he used to be, he would leave at this point. Spare Hugo from the unnecessary pain. Punish himself for _daring_ to let his own impropriety and selfishness hurt his beloved. But experience had taught him that sometimes a little bit of them is actually necessary. And Damien would rather hurt himself than Hugo.

So he spoke. “I thought I couldn’t fit in.”

His words came off in a stammer, and the teacher had to squint. “You _couldn’t_ fit in?”

Damien nodded. “I believe I have not told you this, Hugo, but you are so irrefutably cool.”

“Wait, what?”

“You are, my dear,” he breathed roughly. “No day had passed without me thanking everything that brought us together, for I find my heart and mind so full with the thoughts of you and the happiness I received was so abundant, _infinite_ , that I sometimes found myself wondering if my past, or worse, our time together, is only a distant dream.”

It took a while for him to notice that Hugo had moved closer, firmly massaging the back of his neck with a hand that was already getting warmer. No words were said. Hugo understood him that much.

“I wish I could explain what it is that I wanted, but words are always—“ _inadequate, incomplete, imperfect,_ “Not enough, when it comes to you. Perhaps it was curiosity or perhaps it was greed but—I want. Maybe to experience your world, or to witness the reason why your already brilliant eyes would become brighter than the stars whenever wrestling was concerned. Or maybe it was because you accepted my personhood, eccentricity and all, and I wished to return that happiness and understanding.”

Damien took a deep breath. It came out shaking. He tried not to claw his own work pants too hard, but that too might have been impossible. Surely the English of yore was made to prevent this sort of messy outburst.

“I do not know. What I do know is that I cannot help feeling like I do not belong there and I hate it. I _curse_ my own inadequacy. You deserved something proper and pure, something _right_.”

Instead of backing away, however, Hugo pulled him closer into an embrace, gripping his shoulder firmly and pressing the other hand to the small of his back. “If anyone here deserves the label cool then it’s always going to be you,” said the teacher in a comforting tone.

By habit, Damien dismissed the praise, but the sound he made inched dangerously to a sniffle. “I beg to differ, dearest, much as I appreciate your attempts of humility.”

He tried to bury his face into the broad shoulder before a pair of hand released themselves from him and tenderly craned his chin up. Hugo’s lips were cool and not as dried as it had been when they first kissed. They moved gently and slowly, more soothing than anything else, but they were relentless, tongue closing inch by inch until every single one of Damien’s insecurities were swallowed fully with air and his muffled groans. Truly, what use was oxygen when the space could be filled with something better?

Damien’s mind was blissfully empty when they tore apart and Hugo was smiling again. Grateful. Happy.

“Look at me. I’m just a dork with too much tacky t-shirts and you’re…you. Impeccable. Original. Goddamn classy. And this,” the teacher gestured to the laptop screen, where a burly man in tight purple pants was about to dive soundlessly from the top of the cage into his opponent, “Is not exactly the most sophisticated entertainment. It’s not for everyone. But clearly I was assuming about you and I’m sorry. It was wrong.”

Damien hummed, eager to argue yet knowing fully it was unnecessary. “I am not at all original, beloved. If anything, _conspicuous_ might be the better word. After all my overall aesthetic is not one that easily fits with—what does Lucien call it— _the mainstream_.”

Hugo snorted, and the sound was a welcomed relief. “I’m afraid no subcultures or stereotypes are safe from the wrestling world’s grubby hands. We’ll watch The Undertaker in all his glory and you’ll see why.”

Damien’s heart may have stopped for the slightest. In a display of shameless wantonness, he grabbed his beloved’s stubbled jaw and planted as firm a kiss as he could muster; hoping that his body could say what wretched words had miserably failed. Judging from the way Hugo immediately welcomed the intrusion, he succeeded.

When the teacher pulled away, Damien’s eyes were closed and he leaned forward to chase the lost contact, an act that was fully rewarded by yet another kiss.

“Yes, dearest. I would like to—“ _inadequate_. “No, I would _love_ to watch it together. If you want to, I can set things up so the video will be projected on the television.”

Hugo’s body slouched in relief and his words were practically an adoring sigh. “My sweet, technologically savvy angel.”

Damien smiled fondly and gave Hugo one last kiss before truly releasing the embrace. His body immediately whined from the lost warmth. “You might have been the only one who heard my name and thought ‘sweet angel’, dearest.”

“And I hope things will stay that way,” returned the other man, steadfast and shameless.

Before long, they were sitting on the couch and the browser was projected onto the flat wide screen. Instead of a shady website with pop-up adwares embedded on each click, it was one of the official websites, opened using Hugo’s paid membership because of course he had a paid membership. Running commentaries accompanied Damien as he scrolled idly from thumbnails to thumbnails, not yet knowing any of these names except maybe The Rock. Hugo would introduce every name with a tangent. Damien would ask questions, and they would move onto an entirely different topic. At this rate, there would be too much to learn and therefore, not enough information to understand.

Damien found that he did not mind that too much, because Hugo kept making this specific adorable face he always did whenever he told a long story. Excitement laced on each sentences like the sweetest honey, dripping faster the further Hugo dived deep into wrestling history. With each opinion he made, the fluster on his dark skin would redden, and it took a lot of Damien’s restraint to refrain from kissing him silly.

Truly, there may be no words proper enough to do the sight justice. Moving forward, such inability might become an occurrence most common. He would have to work harder to find a better way to express his affection. He might have to code an entirely new language.

Honestly, there were far worse ways to spend his days.

======

Ultimately, they only managed to stream one championship match before Damien let a graceless yawn. His problems were not at all solved, and from all appearances neither was Damien’s, but Hugo was willing to wait. Especially when waiting meant taking a shower much longer than necessary, lazily kissing because they were too tired to do anything else. When they both slumped into the bed, they were warm and clean and full of love.

Hugo was certain he wouldn’t get bored of this feeling anytime soon.

He wasn’t really surprised when Damien didn’t take long to fall asleep, given how tired he looked. Those tabs in his browser were _a lot_.

And speaking about browser tabs, Hugo reached for the other man’s laptop as well as a small table way too pink for the red and black bedroom. Putting the former on top of the latter, and then the latter above his laps, he streamed the newly installed nanny cams all over his house and sighed in relief at the sight of Duchess Cordelia sleeping peacefully. They all learned the hard way that being capable of breaking in apparently also meant being capable of breaking _out_.

That being said, there were no signs of Ernest or Lucien in his house. Should he text the kids? He should. Hugo texted Lucien, because that was a path less likely to explode. There was also Mary, but Hugo would probably text her once he was sure the situation had reached a resolution.

Now, the only one left. Hugo was about to text his neighbor when he noticed the man himself had messaged Damien’s Dadbook.

There was a thoughtful pause before he adjusted his glasses and clicked on the tab.

> **You:** Um, checking in. Is everything alright?
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** This is Hugo
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** Damien is sleeping right now
> 
> **You:** Oh, um. 
> 
> **You:** …Is everything alright?
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** In a certain way of being alright, yes.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** At least we know where we are standing.
> 
> **You:** Oh.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** It’s a good start.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** It’s good to be reminded that Damien, too, is human. We get anxious and we make assumptions and because of that we can understand and help each other.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** We do need to communicate, and for that I thank you.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** And I will also apologize for putting you in a tight spot.
> 
> **You:** ….If you’re apologizing for that, then I might also apologize for forcing the two of you to talk. As much as I have my reasons, it is not right.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** All’s well that ends well, but apology accepted.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** How are you?
> 
> **You:** I’m doing much better, thanks for asking. I think I’m going to rest at this point. Woo middle-aged lethargy.
> 
> **Damien Bloodmarch:** Take your time.
> 
> **You:** Good night, Hugo.

Hugo was tempted to scroll up, but resolved to wait for Damien’s permission first.

He was correct in that this was an important matter for Damien. He was wrong with everything else, but Hugo found out he didn’t mind. In fact, never had he felt so good about being utterly wrong.

As expected, Lucien replied quickly. The kids were hanging out with Mat and Carmensita and they would come home pretty soon. There was another temptation to double check with Mat. Hugo resisted it, offering instead to pick them up from wherever they are.

As expected, Lucien rejected the offer.

Having nothing else to do, Hugo closed the laptop. He slightly turned the knob on his bedside lamp, enough to glow in a dim white. The slim gadget was placed on the bedside locker and the small table, slipped underneath his side of the bed. Less obnoxious that way.

Something akin to a laughter began to rose and he had to muffle it because it was the late recognition of all the times he had warned his son not to use a computer in the dark.

What a hypocrite.

Then again, which part of adulthood was not tainted with hypocrisy?

Hugo turned around and slid closer to the answer, sleeping right beside him, and leaned forward to steal a kiss on the forehead. Once, twice, not yet closing his eyes because there was so much to indulge, so much to love.

His sharp cheekbones, relaxed and peaceful. A calm and steady breathing. Lustrous skin, pale like the moon and soft like the clouds. A smooth long hair spreading tastefully across the pillow and smelling like roses. Thousands of little details both trivial and impressive, constant and ephemeral, requiring eternity to be dissected properly.

Hugo could not give something he did not have, but he did have this sliver of time.

So he paid his dues and worshiped, entwining a stray lock of Damien’s hair around his fingers, waiting until their children returned home safely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *laughs maniacally and slams head on table*
> 
> ...Thanks for reading this particular snapshot. Writing it started as exciting and quickly dived into frustrating before a couple months of distractions restored a bit of that excitement.
> 
> Damien's writing here is a mixture of Victorian letters and Jane Austen. I'm not sure I'm doing both any justice but erh, I try. And Dadsona follows a bit of Damien's writing convention here because I'm trying to walk the fine line between 'he gets him' and 'he _gets_ him, IYKWIM'. 
> 
> I truly wish I can allude to Hugo and Damien's gallery date in the new expansion, ugh
> 
> NEXT AND THE LAST CHAPTER, the February 14th itself. At this rate I suspect I'll end up posting it in February 2019. Wish me luck!


	7. Limerence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Happy February 14th, partner. Had this really grand speech I was about to say but I remember fuckall, so let’s just make today something to remember, _capiche?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Limerence](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Limerence) is a state of mind which results from a romantic attraction to another person and typically includes obsessive thoughts and fantasies and a desire to form or maintain a relationship with the object of love and have one's feelings reciprocated.
> 
> Content Warning: Distressed Betsy. See end notes for more.
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! This is part one out of two...because as always the fic gets larger than what I expected. I have stopped fighting it. Unbetaed as usual, and any comments and constructive criticism are surely welcomed! <3
> 
> Here's hoping you're having a great day, regardless of your relationship status.

***************

**February 14 th, 8.12 AM**

***************

Old age comes with the unfortunate side effects of dulling excitement with a heap of Been There, Done That.

Still, moments like these never failed to make you feel like you’d been dreaming.

Robert, leaning over your doorway in his biker stud getup. Well-worn leather jacket, one of his naturally faded jeans,  a red shirt stretching on his wide frame, carelessly bundled up to reveal a tempting peek of well-defined abdominal muscles and the sprinkling of dark treasure trail heading down. Orange aviators covered his eyes but there was no cocky smirk; there wasn’t even any naughtiness on his face. He was unabashedly _beaming_ , grinning lopsidedly like you were someone he had been waiting for years instead of the short walk it took to reach the front door. The look was so full of happiness, and your brain short circuited.

“Uh, hey,” you squeaked, adding a stilted wave to complete the package.

“Ain’t you just a smooth operator,” said Robert with a bit of a chuckle. “Got some time to spare, buddy?”

“Yes? I mean-“ You made a confused hand gesture. “We have a date.”

After making a show of looking at his bare wrist, the older man glanced back. “Huh, good point. Glad you’re done with work. Miss you already.”

As much as you rolled your eyes, you did miss him. “Me too,” you murmured back.

“Ready for today?”

“As ready as I can be—but what about you?”

For a while his eyes drifted down to your lips, looking with something that might have been regret as the older man gnawed on his own. “Almost. Just need to do this first.”

Slightly squinting, you kept your curiosity in check and only tilted your head slightly to the side.

For a few seconds, your lover alternated between _awkwardly_ grinning and _bashfully_ chuckling, trying to say something and failing, _timidly_  running a hand through his hair to mess it beyond the disheveled state it already was.

Those actions brought back memories of what little you had seen of his youth. Two collections of fading pictures, divided by a ten-year gap and starring a young Robert that would have been around Amanda’s age when the first pictures had been taken. One picture in particular showed Robert standing by himself on the evergreen hills of Italy, posing in front of a rusted car that looked slightly too small for his body, a leather jacket over his shoulder and a greasy tanktop stretching on his fit and already muscle-bound torso.

Even here you could see how his grin was hardened by life; daring and confident with just a perfect amount of youthful cockiness, topped with a handsome face and sun-kissed skin that was just begging to be worshipped. A vagabond, a heartbreaker; constantly moving and living life until a young overseas student named Marilyn entered his life, carrying limitless ambition and the wildest spirit he had ever seen.

Somehow you found it easy to imagine that cocky young man acting like this: nervous and skittish, anxious and hopeful, trying so earnestly to get it right despite knowing how that might have been impossible.

It made your hammering heart stutter in its beats.

A couple more moments passed without Robert ever managing to speak out one word, his mouth curling into a frown while he was pressing his back against the front door and resting his head on the wooden surface there. By this time, you just had to step forward, nuzzling along his jaws and stealing an indulgent whiff of musk and skin and sweat. A hint of basswood had slipped in between, giving a sharp undertone that only made the end result more irresistible.

“You’re so cute, you know that?” Despite the freezing air, beads of sweat were glistening on his forehead, and your hands moved up to wipe them out. Carefully sliding the orange glasses up revealed a pair of soulful, sunken eyes. “So, so cute.”

Robert let a few annoyed grumble, its words lost inside his throat, but you swore you could hear “not cute” slipping there somewhere.

Smiling greedily, you tilted his head and swallowed the rest of his annoyance in a long, firm kiss. One thumb traced the lines under his eyes that time had etched, giving a silent thanks for all it had went through, and then you started licking your way further into his mouth.

There was a short grunt, and tense fingers clutched on the edges of your collar, and then your lover pressed you onto the wall and swallowed your groans before giving them back with equal fervor and passion. With his thighs nudging between yours, hunger were shared and bodies were rubbing each other. As your hands started sneaking inside his shirt, bristling pleasantly against the coarse hair on his torso, you decided here and now that spending Valentine’s Day just like this wasn’t so bad. Tongues and lips were muscles and they do need their workout.

Unfortunately, Robert thought otherwise, ending the kiss rather unwillingly before taking a couple steps back. “Whew,” he gulped. “A bit more and we’ll get carried away.”

“Honestly, I don’t mind. Although…” Gently, your fingers traced the blackness under his eyes. “Have you slept? Quite smokey eyes you have there.”

Quickly, you leaned forward and stole another peck on his lips.

“Got enough,” said Robert in a stifled laugh before pressing a hand on your torso, keeping you in place and closing the miniscule distance with his lips once again. The kiss was more relaxed this time, taking an extra time for him and you both to wander across the cheeks, to rub noses and giggle stupidly at nothing and everything. His stubble had been growing closer to actual beard levels. It was so very ticklish.

It was also very nice.

Warmth seeped into skin as his forehead rested upon yours, the freshness of his menthol mouthwash fading with each breath. “You’re cuter, by the way. Deal with it,” whispered Robert between smooches. “But I ain’t arguing ‘bout that now. Got something I really need to give you now,”

His gaze was so sincere, any words were soon forgotten and your poor heart kicked several notches even further.

Carefully, he pulled a tiny rose from his pocket.

Correction. He pulled a tiny _wooden_ rose, red and budding with an incredibly short stem that didn’t even reach his thumb.

“Happy February 14th, partner. Had this really grand speech I was about to say but I remember fuckall, so let’s just make today something to remember, _capiche_?” muttered Robert as he slowly offered the flower to you. “Sorry if it’s not that impressive. ’s just a flash of inspiration. Y’know, singin’ muses and ev’rything.”

Upon a closer look it was apparent that despite the smooth and delicately whittled surface, the coloring was uneven on some spots. Red paint bled through the leaves; exactly the same color as the ones still sprinkled on his fingers. All the clues were laid bare so plainly, yet you feel the need to voice it, to give these discoveries a name.

“You’ve been whittling all night,” you said in a whisper, brushing his rough fingers as you pinched the small green stem with the utmost tenderness.

“It’s a backup plan, really.” Robert shrugged, trying to look unaffected. “I’d expected making the ones in full bloom would be hard without woodcarving tools but I didn’t expect it to be _that_ hard. And then…it’s too late to stop.” His body squared up and tensed, as if preparing for an incoming blow. “I can always take it back if you want something better.”

“No.”

The older man stilled, uncertainty filling his handsome face and twisting his mouth in concern.

“ _Never_. Not even as a joke,” you hissed. Clutching the small flower onto your chest, you found that your voice was too emotional to be playful. “This is mine and mine forever. How dare you blindside me like this; I don’t even have anything to give you in return.”

Robert’s shoulders slightly sagged, and then his nose was pressing on your hair, his words a warm puff against your skin. “You’re okay with it?”

 _“Okay?”_ Your voice was raised to the point it started to break. “We already are planning a Valentine thing. Something you had explicitly said you hate just a few days ago. And then you spent the entire night whittling who knows how many times to make me this.”

With a ragged breath, you wrapped your arms tight around his waist and refused to let go. Some part of you dimly registered the embarrassment of acting like some romcom protagonist, but old age also comes with an increasing awareness of life’s fragility. Moments like this are rare, and one day they might even stop entirely, leaving nothing but words left unsaid.

(And you got way too many of those.)

So you embraced the shame while you still had the chance.

A myriad of emotions flashed on Robert’s face: disbelief, awareness, and then relief, before it settled into a sheepish smile lacking his usual confidence. He tenderly returned the gesture, resting his hands on the small of your back and pressing his lips on your temple.

“Was it really that good?” he asked, uncertainly barely hidden. “I think you deserve more,”

“Tough order. I’ve already liked what you gave on principle,” you said with a little bit of a stifled cough. ” _You can give me actual shit and it will be more than okay_ ,”

“You always like what I gave on principle.” he countered, pulling away slightly to softly poke your chest. “Hell, pretty sure you’ll like it if I give you—I don’t know, a freshly skinned duck.”

“Heh.” Absently, your hand raised to wipe the dampness gathering on your eyes. “Do you have any problem with ducks? Ethical concerns aside, they’re expensive and delicious.”

“They’re monsters.” He rolled his eyes. "Point is, you can always ask more. Hell, be picky.” Carefully, he lifted both your hands and raised them to land a fluttering kiss on each knuckles. "I'll give my best to satisfy you, for the rest of the day and hereafter."

Words lost their orders and heat started seeping through your face, followed by the return of the thirst you almost catered to just now. Honestly, it was hard to think with him so close with you, musk so sweet and thick and _alive_.

“Can we start by continuing where we left off?” you murmured, slightly surprised by how hoarse your voice was.

“I’d love to, buddy.” And yet, Robert released your hands and drew back. “But we’ve got a plan.”

Wait. “But—“

Before you could clutch his shirt, the hunter stepped aside, gave your cheek a loud, sloppy smooch, and walked away with a knowing grin. “ _We’ve got a plan._ ”

“Nuh-uh.” You shoved one hand to cover his mouth. “If we aren’t fucking, then _I_ need to find a temporary vessel for this flower and _you_ need to take your meds and sleep.”

There was a sudden wetness tickling your palm, and Robert snickered as you shrieked, pulling your hand back and wiping it on your shirt. “Hell if I’m sleeping now, bud,” he smirked, cockiness already returning. “We got a plan and I’m sticking to it.”

“We got a plan, yes; a very flexible one, taking account for a lot of things including your usual sleeping schedule,” you said carefully.

“And this ain’t any other day, buddy. C’mon, move.”

Robert firmly clapped your shoulders once, squeezed them, and went inside without even taking off his boots. Both the usual pile of books and the unusual storage boxes you had unearthed for today proved harmless against his purposeful stride, and he’d already entered your bedroom when you were just halfway there.

By the moment you entered, your lover had already gathered all the pillows on your bed in a tall stack. “Still, at least try laying on the bed first?” you pleaded uselessly.

“Oh, _nice_ ,” drawled Robert, not even bothering to stop folding your weighted blanket into a messy ball. “Gonna join me there, buddy? Maybe sing me a lullaby, fill me with some easy lovin’ for a good night sleep?”

“Yes. Or better yet, the reverse,” you sighed, raising a halting finger. “But I don’t want you to fall asleep in the middle of doing it, so we’re not having this discussion until you’ve had enough rest.”

He snorted and shoved the bundle of blanket to your arms. “Sometimes I wonder why you can be so fucking shameless and still sucks at flirting.”

“That’s just speaking the truth,” you said with a shrug. “I’m socially awkward with a touch of misanthropy, not dishonest.”

In one move, the older man lifted all five pillows against his chest, pressing his jaw down to help them stay in place. A slight tilt of his head, and you knew his meaning straight away. Valentine’s Day had begun. You were about to make the most epic pillow fort you could achieve and it was time to find all the pillows and cushions in this house.

Your heart started to dance.

***************

**February 14 th, 10.27 AM**

***************

Your heart fell down and drew blood.

There just wasn’t enough preparation. Building a pillow fort was cheap and simple but it involved lots of little things. Gathering huge books and binder clips were easy—you already got plenty of both—but for the rest, you had to search both houses. As if that wasn’t enough, your air mattress was too damaged to inflate properly, and Robert’s futon deserved a Viking funeral more than anything at this point. Pretty sure the dust gathering on that _thing_ was older than Amanda. Buying a new mattress required time, budget, and energy you were unwilling to spare, so after much struggle the two of you finally removed Robert’s king-sized mattress from his bedroom and plopped it down right at the center of his living room.

Of course, that also meant the space had to be cleared. His coffee table had to be dragged elsewhere, the gap between the sofas widened. While the spacious area could handle all these changes, some part of you weren’t sure if Betsy could.

Being wrong was so much better than this.

The sight mirrored those ‘owner comes home, dog went ecstatic’ videos you’d seen around Dadbook, except the feeling it evoked was panic. Every time someone tried to approach the living room she would start to tremble and followed the two of you with forlorn eyes, making this really sad whimper like you were about to go somewhere without her. Your attempts to hold her close only resulted in an excessive amount of drool on your shirt.

Robert’s effort was a bit more successful, with him clutching her tightly to his chest. “Girl, calm down,” he said. “Nobody’s going anywhere.”

Judging on how she kept wriggling and thrashing, she didn’t believe him.

“Hey,” he called. “C’mon.”

Her back legs kept kicking the older man’s torso repeatedly like how a kidnapping scene would play in a movie. Robert grimaced, but his grip remained firm.

At least until Betsy started to howl.

Long and full of sorrow, this was the first time you’d ever heard that sound and you knew you would do a lot of things to never hear it again. Robert was surprised too, because he quickly kneeled down and released his grip, letting the dog run for her life as if the sight of this room was something she could no longer stand.

Five seconds had passed in a distorted motion, or it might have been five minutes; five hours later. Serpent-like frustration coiled around your heart, fear of failing your lover coming back in full force, making everything so tiring and heavy.

You _really_ should have just spent today fucking.

At a certain point you pulled out your phone in autopilot. Trembling fingers typed and deleted words until _dog freaking out what happened_ was successfully inputted to the browser. Immediately, a specific phrase burned your eyes like a scarlet letter.

“ _Separation anxiety.”_

“A bit similar to it, yeah, according to Mary. Been years since the last time.” Robert had already stood up, looking past the ceiling-to-floor glass windows covering one side of his living room. His face was unreadable and his voice was tight, seemingly coming from a faraway place. “Last time I did a major cleaning, Mary took care of her. Should’ve done the same thing today.”

Desperation and helplessness was not at all helpful at this point, and neither was self-loathing. With a bit too much force, you stood up and stilled your hand on his chest. “Okay. This is a curve ball all right, but it’s fine. Everything’s fine,” you muttered. A sharp inhale followed, and you quickly analyzed the situation beyond _what the fuck_ and _you should have known_.

Betsy was freaking out; take care of her. Meanwhile, keep finding a solution, apply that solution, and profit—if there was any. Sometimes reducing losses was the best you could hope for.

“So I’ll start looking for solutions,” you finally said. “Meanwhile, you can—“

Robert suddenly ruffled your hair, cutting your words and breaking the gathering nerves into aimless buzz.

“’s okay, bud,” he said firmly. “Just help me carry these things, please?”

Like a man with a mission, your lover started picking up a bunch of Betsy’s toys and Ziploc bags filled with treats, bundling them around your weighted blanket. Stealing a glance as he handed those to you, the dark circles in his eyes seemed to deepen, but his expression was—

“C’mon,” he urged.

“Where are we going?” you asked, edge unwittingly present in your voice. “Do you know where she is?”

“The place untouched by this mess, of course,” said your lover with a solemn nod.

Right, his expression. The way he looked right now reminded you of the first time you saw him, except now the quiet fire in his eyes was burning with determination, battered but not broken, and you couldn’t describe it in any other way except _cool_.

Robert just looked so cool.

Given the circumstances, you afforded yourself at least that one positive thought.

***************

**February 14 th, 10.43 AM**

***************

A few days before Thanksgiving, during the major cleanup, you had pointed out how empty Val’s bedroom was.

“She was nothing if not thorough,” Robert had answered back then. “She wants to erase her past, she did just that. It’s so very Marilyn I can’t even complain.”

Brian’s deft hands and a fresh coat of paint had successfully fixed over a decade of neglect, and still this room remained unsullied.

Deep, lustrous maroon surrounded the walls, reminding you of the nail pictures Val often posted in her social media. A series of frameless glass windows filled the whole side across the entrance. Outside, morning sun slowly rose on the bright blue sky, its white rays glinting on the solar panels Craig and Mat had attached on their roofs. A couple of tall trees could be seen with snow piling on their branches.

The few contents of this room, meanwhile, were frozen in time. A single bed straight from the early 90s resided on the center left side, and in front of it was an old and empty black dresser from the same era. Sticker marks on its sides told a story about a life long gone, and right in the nearest corner was a rusted radiator.

Kneeling in front of it was Betsy, looking small and ready to run anytime soon.

Robert slowly closed the door with his feet. “Hey,” whispered the hunter softly as he knelt. “There you are.”

She refused to look at either of you, and her whimper sounded guilty.

“No need to be scared, I know you’re upset. We’ll help you through it.”

You had no idea whether she refused to understand his words or couldn’t, but one step forward, and Betsy scampered away. By reflex, you also reached forward to catch her, but the Boston terrier already slid under the bed and refused to come out. Her breathing sounded like she had just ran a full marathon.

Robert let a sharp hiss, and your breathing abruptly hitched for reasons beyond the cold air stinging your lungs.

“Sorry,” he muttered, raising a hand. “Not mad, I promise. Just a bit frustrated.”

Truthfully, some part of you expected him to be mad.

After cranking the old radiator on, Robert settled on an empty side of the room and sat down. He lightly patted the space beside him, clearly reserved, so you grabbed the time-worn pillows from the bed, laid them on the floor together with all the stuffs you had carried, and slid down against the cold, hard wall.

On your phone screen, imprecise terms predictably lead to a mélange of genuine suggestions and ad-filled spam pages, and still they all got opened. Each article got skimmed, with the bogus ones closed in record speed, and a still rational thought in the back of your mind noted how detrimental it was to seek answers with this sort of mindset.

Nevertheless, it offered no way out, so you hoped your antivirus was up-to-date and kept searching.

You started moving your finger from bag to bag until you picked the one containing homemade dried chicken jerky, unanimously the best creation you and Robert had ever made. “Let’s see if baiting works,” you hummed, shaking it loudly a couple of times before opening the bag. “Look what I got, Betsy. It’s your favorite treat.”

Sure enough, the dog peeked her head out from the darkness.

“Aren’t you hungry?” you cooed while taking out a slice of jerky. “Here, it’s your favorite treat. Do you want some?”

Despite your best efforts, however, heaviness filled your words. Not only did Betsy noticed that, stopping after taking a couple of tentative steps, Robert also peered at you with a meaningful look. With dampness gathering on your body, you soldiered through and waved the jerky left and right.

For the slightest moment, you saw a glimpse of recognition in her eyes and she took another few steps.

Hope mercilessly made your heart swell then plunged its talon when Betsy ran back inside the safety of the darkness.

Robert’s hand gently rubbed your hunched back, a warm comfort in this cold-ass room. “’s alright, buddy. Just give her time.”

“It’s fine. I should find my lavender oil though,” you moved on to the next thing the Internet had suggested. “It’s probably inside the bathroom.”

“It wouldn’t help, with the way you’re reacting right now,” said Robert, his words bristling. Contrasting your own nervousness, he sat upright and squared his shoulders in the same kind of dominant posturing you’d seen when he was prowling Jim and Kim’s. “Just stay still.”

Bracing both hands on your thighs, you ignored his restrained frown and pushed yourself off the floor. “It won’t take long,” you assured him as a sort of olive branch. “I’ll just gonna—whoa!”

The moment you stood halfway up, Betsy leaped across the room and tackled you back down, climbing on your arms and using the leverage to start slobbering your face like she was genuinely afraid. It was not so much snuggling as opposed to aggressively making sure you remained here.

“Betsy, no—I’m just going to the bathroom,” you tried to speak through, all to no avail. Her yips remained desperate, and her little body easily squirmed around your too-careful grasp. And that last decision was vindicated when Robert joined in, because his firm hold only made the dog resist harder.

She finally dashed back underneath the bed, but not before her tongue had successfully slobbered every inch of your face.

“I won’t say I told you so,” sighed Robert, pinching the bridge of his nose as he grimaced. “but I told you so.”

You could only shake your head and keep breathing.

Despite one pillow cushioning your back, your body had started its complaints. Your mental state didn’t fare any better, with options both valid and invalid circling your head like hungry vultures. Exercising would burn Betsy’s excess energy—and you wouldn’t mind enduring the cold for her sake—but that would be impossible if she still refused to come out from her hiding spot. The same goes for your weighted blanket.

A violent sound started buzzing inside your head, urging you to be ready, to buy, to prepare as you browsed a couple of special products that were supposed to help anxious dogs. Sixteen digits you never really managed to remember were the only guard standing between you and over two hundred dollars of impulsive purchase. Still you kept the tab open, just in case.

With most of the suggestions failing, and the rest inapplicable to this situation, you started streaming one of the many songs that were supposed to sooth anxious dogs. This was your first time hearing about them. A simple stream of classical instruments flowed one by one, slow and steady, not at all different from the ones you used during your worse moments.

Truthfully, now might have been one of those moments, particularly because a rather blistering awareness kept prickling the back of your head. Betsy _was_ a shelter puppy. She may be a sweet harmless dog who was more likely to drown you in her drool rather than biting your leg, but you knew nothing about what happened in the past. Having a jacked-up survival instinct was something that could afflict anyone.

You should have known. You really should have known. You really should have fucking known.

It was always like this, wasn’t it? You got too excited with what you were about to get, you forgot all the pain your selfishness could lead to. Had lead others to. Would continue to lead others to. And you couldn’t pull any ‘flawed individual with dark past’ card to justify your actions—no. It was just your greed. Your selfishness. Your humanity. It had never changed.

You self-absorbed—

Robert’s hands were suddenly on yours, firmly prying the fingers off from digging tiny crescents on your palms (when did you clench them?)

“How can I help?” he asked.

Deflection was too little too late. With a sigh that may have been too loud for your liking, you began taking off all of your layers and used the dryer parts to wipe your body dry. “I don’t know yet.”

Central heating proved inadequate and you started shivering—for about three seconds, before your lover yanked the blanket from your lap and draped it around your shoulder. Comforting warmth and pressure enveloped your body, and attempts to shrug it off only made Robert tighten it more.

“That eager to strip, buddy?” he teased without bite. “Thought you’re a dinner and a movie type of guy.”

“This blanket is not for me,” you frowned. “I can survive a bit of cold air.”

“Lies. You’ve been looking very sour for a while, buddy,” countered your lover, voice firm in its knowledge. He then frowned so severely it reminded you of Japanese Tengu masks you’d read about in the name of research. “A bit like this.”

A pang of guilt made you unable to truly enjoy his attempt of amusement. 

Your face, however, only seemed to prove his point, his expression breaking into a more genuine-looking wry smile.

“So, penny for your thoughts?” he asked, voice low and steady.

If it was any other people, you would have deflected that question. Failure already covered your tongue with lead, tinged with the increasingly realistic fear of making the situation much worse. 

And your comfort felt very much unearned. Your weighted blanket was definitely worth the hundred-or-so bucks you’d splurged for it, and Robert‘s warmth was both literal and figurative. Nothing you did today made you worthy of all this. If anything, you deserved to have them taken away.

But Robert was not any other people. If you couldn’t trust yourself, then at least you could trust him.

So you let him see and he let you see.

Initial observation showed dark circles on his eyes, dried skin, and deep wrinkle lines. Lethargy had definitely weighed on him. Behind his steely gaze was worry, and there was hurt too, but Robert also looked like he got things in control somehow. Shamefully, your first thought was _repression_ , but by this time you were already on a first name basis with his myriad faces, including the occasional guarded look he would put whenever he wanted everyone to think he always was the toughest motherfucker in this lazy seaside town. This was not it.

“I’m getting overwhelmed,” you finally said.

Robert’s voice failed to betray any stray feelings. “Okay, that’s your basic premise. Why?”

“For making you worry. And for not adding anything helpful to this situation.” Thinking about it filled you with a crushing sense of exhaustion, and your head sagged. Carefully, your lover cradled your head until you were leaning on his broad shoulder.

“I disagree, but I can see why. Why, though?”

“There seems to be nothing I can do, and my mind keeps oscillating between helplessness and panic.” You cleared your dry throat. “Everything was right and wrong. Every solution was trite and important at the same time. Doing something only makes things worse, and yet not doing anything is…”

The words ended in a tired sigh.

“Ah,” replied the older man after clearing his throat. “You have a special word for this.”

“Analysis paralysis, yes.”

“Quite a good rhyme. And I s’pose I can see your point.”

“And what _is_ my point?” you asked back.

“You want to make this better and you don’t know how,” he stated so plainly.

“It wasn’t that simple,” you grumbled, drawing back in a bit of a defensive gesture.

Robert folded his arms, a silent challenge to explain yourself.

“I can’t—“ you started before pausing. “No. I _can_ live without any pillow fort. You know I don’t mind living without any Valentine’s Day. But seeing that not only are you hurting, but also Betsy, _especially_ Betsy…”

“Hold on,” interrupted the older man, raising two large hands as if guarding against your words. A hint of a grin began to appear. “Who the fuck’s being hurt?”

“Don’t you dare pretend this is nothing for you, Robert Small,” you scoffed, to no avail. Guess looking intimidating was impossible when you were practically a blanket burrito.

With more fondness than the situation warranted, his hands warmly cupped your cheeks, punctuating each sentences with a peck around your face. “It’s fine. _She’s fine_. Stop whipping your back for no reason.” He had this devilish grin, and you knew something terrible was about to be said. “Why do it alone when I can spank your flat ass for you?”

He snickered as you shoved him away.

“Utterly ridiculous,” you groaned.

“You’re the one being kinky on his own, you naughty ol’ perfectionist.”

“It’s not a kink.”

“If you’re that eager, I’m not opposed against adding some punishment play in our bed, y’know. Heard it’s healthy for the mind.” A quick snap of his fingers broke the melody playing from your phone. “ _A controlled release_ , they said.”

“Wait, what.” Surprisingly, instead of indignation, what came out was a broken giggling, an inelegant sound that made your lover’s grin grew even wider. “I’m not—I don’t—What are we talking about?”

“Fuck if I know, but now things don’t sound as bad as it seems, yeah?” he asked with a playful shrug.

Instead of answering, you just let your laughter burst free.

Robert waited until everything subsided to gently trace a line across your cheek with his knuckle, moving down until he touched the blanket once again. “If talking helps, then talk as much as you like, buddy. I’m on your side, always will be, and it’s still a fine platter of shit we’re dealing with right now.” With a sharp tug, he secured the burrito one last time. “But saying who’s making what mistake ain’t gonna turn these shit into gold, so why don’t we just roll with the punches and see where it brings us?”

“…You mean like Rocky?” you remarked with a soft smile.

“Or Creed,” said the older man quite lightly. “Although you can’t really beat the classics.”

“Fair.” You snuggled closer to him until you could feel the warmth of his skin, smell the sweet sharpness of sweat that also started to appear there. Robert smelled _warm_ , and you didn’t know why your mind made that remark. “Not sure if I can just flip the switch, but—fair. It’s worth trying. You’re worth trying.”

The older man made a very pleased face as he leaned closer, pressing his lips on your ear. “Well, I don’t think we have much work to do. Look.”

Turning very slowly, you saw Betsy peeking from under the bed, looking at your direction like she had something in her mind.

Before you could say anything, however, Robert let a long yawn and stretched his body taut. “Y’know, a day like this makes me wanna play fetch,” he said a bit loudly. Slowly, almost lazily, he leaned down and picked an old tennis ball in his hands, its lime green long faded into the color of dust and mud. “Wonder if anyone’s willing.”

His pointed gaze told you he wanted a response. It didn’t tell what.

“I—uh. Yes?” you blurted in confusion.

Robert snorted, and abruptly threw the ball across the room, bouncing back to his hand when you were just about to get up. “Bah, too slow. I need someone faster. Too bad _nobody_ wants to play.”

“Ooooh. Yeah,” you said, trying to keep your voice from being _too_ obvious. “Tough luck. Maybe we should just keep doing normal things. Boring human things.”

“Sitting on our chair,” Robert added. “Eating with spoons and forks.”

“Never going out for a walk.” An elbow nudged your side. “ _Occasionally_ going out for a walk.”

“Never playing fetch.”

“Never ever.”

“Too bad. Seriously.”

Somehow, a smile started to creep on your face.

With a practiced ease, Robert tossed the ball upwards and caught it effortlessly as it fell back to his palm. After a couple of repeats, Betsy’s upper half had crawled out from the darkness, eyes never straying away from the ball. If this was a movie, the camera would pan between you and her and him and the ball in his hand. There would be total silence. As it was, the same soothing orchestra was still playing nonstop.

“Should we?” he whispered, Adam’s apple bobbing as he slowly gulped.

You reached for his free hand and squeezed it tight for a quick second. “Channel your inner Stallone, Robert.”

“Rolling with the punches.” A soft snicker, and he threaded his fingers around yours. “Alright.”

Again, the ball landed squarely onto his open palm, and was tossed to the sky.

This time, he caught it midair. “Fetch, Betsy!”

There was a bark, and then—cue rousing music—a dog leaped and caught the ball while it was up in the air. Without any kind of thought, you started cheering.

Your lover, meanwhile, pumped his fist, looking very much like a man who had just won the jackpot. “Attagirl!”

After running happily in circles, the Boston terrier proudly walked towards the two of you to trade the ball for loving backrubs and ear scratches. While she still squirmed, she was no longer fighting Robert as he lifted her up.

“Ooh, look at you,” you fawned between fragile laughter. “Who’s a good girl? Tell me, who’s a good girl?” Her reply was a single, loud, jubilant bark. “That’s right. It’s you!”

The buzzing inside your head had long stopped, leaving just unnamed feelings to crumble when Betsy licked your face in what seemed like happiness this time.

Robert poked her flat nose and softened his voice to his usual coo. “Nobody’s leaving, you silly girl. Just gonna build a pillow fort. Don’tcha like pillows? Don’t you?”

The dog looked up and meekly licked his finger.

“That’s okay. Take your time. Get the stress outta your way,” replied your lover, before turning his face to look right back at you with a certain tenderness that made your breath stuck in your throat. “We’re always gonna be here for you.”

Wordlessly, his shoulder rubbed against yours, with his handsome face bearing the certainty of someone who knows what he’s talking about. A shimmering light shone like hearth fire, warming this cold and lonely room, and you felt yourself falling in love yet a bit deeper with this man in front of you.

***************

**February 14 th, 12.37 PM**

***************

For twenty minutes, everything had been an oasis of relative calm and your mind started its slow ascent back to sanity. Still got the tabs open, though, and you also mentally booked yourself a long talk with both Mary and Damien to learn more about dealing with difficult dogs.

But right now they weren’t your biggest concern.

The tension in Robert’s body still hadn’t left. And as always, there were way too many guesses as for why.

Maybe it was a projection of Betsy’s lingering nerves. Right now, she was tugging a short, multicolored fleece rope you’d been holding. While usually this would be a form of training, right now she seemed happy just attempting to yank the rope out from your hand with enthusiasm that dangerously bordered on aggression.

Maybe it was how the lavender oil did not seem to give immediate results, although you knew by experience that these things were not supposed to. Like the music, it was fine as long as she didn’t hate it.

Maybe it was how the three of you were back at Val’s bedroom again, and you dared not assume just how much weight this little space would have in Robert’s heart.

…Or maybe these were projections of your own nagging thoughts.

Here were the facts: after playing fetch for a couple of times, Robert took Betsy out to relieve her bladder. When he returned, instead of sitting down he started pacing around the room with hands planted firmly in his pocket, looking like a slab of bent metal ready to snap. Occasionally he would squint at a distance as if gazing hard enough would lead him to his destination and you knew that something was lurking inside his mind.

“Are you alright?” you had asked.

“Nah.” The question was dismissed with a little head gesture towards Betsy. “Just waiting for her to get better.”

Twenty five minutes had passed and nothing seemed to change. Even Betsy did.

“….Can I help you, Robert?” you asked again, clearing your throat while fidgeting with the edges of your still-on blanket burrito. The older man paused, and looked down at you with a look of—not stress, thank goodness, but there were seeds of one. “Something seems to bother you.”

“You already helped.” A thin smile appeared on his lips, full of fondness. “And ‘s just a matter of time, really. Nothing biggie.”

You could feel the skepticism spreading in your face. ”There’s—“

Already folding his arms and leaning on the space beside yours, Robert met your gaze with a steely one of his own. “No.”

“…I haven’t even said anything.”

“You’re thinking of aborting the mission,” he said, hands on his side. Which, touché.

“I seriously wouldn’t mind,” you said, arching your upper body away from the wall before tugging the rope you’d been holding. “Give, Betsy, give.”

At your command, the Boston terrier released the rope and eagerly took the chicken jerky you offered as a treat. She barked happily twice. And then in a flash she dashed right back at the rope and started tugging it again.

You craned your head up to wordlessly deliver your argument at him.

“Honorable as always, bud,” Robert chuckled, wry and dry. “Except her problem is not pillow forts. It’s the mess.”

You would have asked, but recognition of how the house looked in your first year pruned any further curiosity from branching out. Context was not something you needed to know anytime soon.

Robert must have thought something similar, judging from how abruptly he leaned down, conveniently hiding his face while picking up a water bottle he’d grabbed when he first took Betsy out.

“What’s your plan, then?” you asked.

“It’s simple; we need to sort out all the things, except we also need to wait until this li’l missy here feels good enough not to freak out again for the second time. Or-“ He stopped to take a long gulp and then handed the bottle to you. “We divide the work, somehow.”

“So, one of us takes Betsy for a walk while the other builds the fort?”

Robert shook his head. “That’s not good. I mean—I prefer not to take her out when she’s like this.”

“Ah, good point; she might run away.” With a slight frown, you drank the rest of the bottle empty. It’s just warm water. “Pressed in time indeed.”

“Pretty much.” Robert closed his eyes for a few seconds, then abruptly shook his head a couple of times, cursing silently. “Well, since you’re already so comfy like that, guess I’ll—“

“No.”

“…and I haven’t even said anything,” he mumbled.

“You’re thinking of shouldering the majority of the work while leaving me to play with Betsy,” you guessed. Which, judging from the way his face tensed, touché.

“C’mon,” replied the hunter with a little _tsk_ , his glare pointed. “Think I’m all precious and fragile again, babe?”

Chuckling, you let the rope go and watched as Betsy waved it left and right, letting out a pleased noise as she rolled around the floor. “Being precious and fragile is not always bad thing, though?“

“Of course you would say that,” retorted Robert with a hollow snort.

Undoing your blanket burrito, you carefully placed the thick fabric in a messy pile near the dog. “Well, it’s bad when people use them to manipulate others, yeah, but it’s nobody’s fault our world loathes softness, least of all those who suffer from its hatred.” you continued, standing up. “But that’s not my point.”

“What is?”

“See,” you started, leaning forward and giving his forehead a tender kiss. “I don’t have enough words to explain just how much you’d been giving me for today alone, but I see you, and I thank you for everything. Now, please at least let me _try_ doing the same for you.”

Here, Robert’s lips twitched, and you squeezed his arms tightly before he could even speak.

“Don’t you dare deny it, Mr. Small, I can list everything you’ve done one by one from last night up to this very moment.” Moving your hands up to his face again, this time you only stopped to give his cheeks a little pinch. “You probably have even prepared everything we’re supposed to cook for today. Am I wrong?”

“You were working,” he halfway rasped, looking more guilty than anything.

“That changes nothing, silly,” you said with a gentle flick. Slowly, you pulled the older man closer and felt him burying his face into the crook of your neck, sagging onto your body in silence until the tension started to fade. “You still did a lot, and you still look tired, and I am not that inexperienced when it comes to building pillow forts. Let me?”

His grip on your shirt suddenly clenched tight, and you could feel his body stiffening as if metal wires were replacing his spine. Betsy hadn’t noticed, still occupied with snuggling inside your blanket, but you were absolutely certain she would, soon.

“Can’t stop now,” he hoarsely whispered, as if it was a secret he’d been keeping. “Need everything to be perfect. Hafta make sure everything’s perfect.”

Empathy made you wince. On one hand, you wanted to impart all the advice you'd gotten from your neighbors, but gentleness never really worked when Robert was this vulnerable. On the other hand, arguing and saying that you weren’t looking for perfection would be just the same as telling him all his efforts were for naught.

“I know the feeling,” you carefully coaxed, pulling slightly back and holding Robert’s face again. “Which is also why I hope you also understand why I want to do this.”

“But you’re not—you’re just—“

“And you’d been staying up since who knows when, but I’m not going to keep tallies,” you remarked softly. “We’re both exhausted, yes, but we know our own strength, and we’re also in this together, aren’t we?”

Realization slowly dawned on his face, replacing the harshness with more vulnerable. “You’re really not backing down on this.”

“You’re important for me,” you said. “So I won’t.”

Lips curling in awkwardness, a tint of red started to creep on Robert’s defined jawline—and _there_. There was that youthfulness again, fleeting like a shooting star. It was a _please don’t make me say these feelings_ combined with _I want you to know these feelings._

And then it disappeared and was replaced by a ragged exhaustion; not just for today, but for life, something that only a lifetime of fighting tooth and nail could ever bring in someone.

With an exhale, Robert handed the rest of his beating heart in a chaste kiss, almost weak if not for the way he trembled as your lips touched. Decades ago, the younger you would have dreamed at this point: to be the one who took away all his pain, his one and only savior where the world had cruelly failed him.

Old age comes with the unfortunate side effects of shattering youthful overconfidence in the most humbling way possible.

So instead, pulling in a shuddering breath of your own, you returned the kiss and prayed for whoever who would listen. For strength and endurance, for the ability and the chance to hold onto this for as long as you humanly could. The world was never ever fair, and you’d like to think that was why humans formed the concept of love in the first place.

It took quite a bit of willpower to pull back, and when you did, you couldn’t help smiling. So was your lover. Try as he might to bit the grin off his mouth, Robert failed, and the older man beamed so widely that your heart nearly burst before your brain could even recall the pictures of his youth.

“Have I told you how handsome you are when you’re smiling like this?” Slowly, your hands started to trail down as you leaned closer, feeling his chiseled jawline and strong shoulders, moving steadily until they rested right on the middle of his broad, muscled chest. “I feel like I haven’t said it enough. Such a stud.”

“ _Stud_ ,” he repeated with a snort, wrapping his arms on the small of your back. “Well. This stud is all yours to ride for the day, babe.”

Your eyeroll was a full body experience this time, but still you couldn’t take your eyes away.

“What; you want me to do the riding?” drawled the older man with quirked lips, tone filled with such filth you could feel your body heating up. He just smelled _warm_ , and you didn’t know why, but you wanted to pull him close until the sweetness of his scent drowned both stale dust and lavender. The fact that he had started sweating only made things more of a challenge.

“I wonder if it’s too soon to have buyer’s remorse,” you murmured, rubbing his chest up and down.

“Nope, no returns, no refunds.” A finger gun was pointed at your forehead, flicking up with a noiseless _bang_. “But maybe if you’re being really nice I can add a steaming hot lunch to sweeten the entire deal.”

“Yes, please.” Your stomach also voiced its enthusiastic agreement. “Maybe half an hour from now?”

Laughing a bit too loud, your lover leaned forward to give your forehead another loud and sloppy smooch. “Give me an hour just to be safe, okay?”

“Forty?” you almost begged.

“Forty five, and I need you to clean up the whole path to the kitchen.”

“Deal.”

“A’ight. So now _you_ got things to do while _I’m_ playing with this li’l girl over here.” After planting a quick kiss, he released his hold on you and waved you away dismissively. “Off you go. Shoo.”

Like a brat five times your junior, you raised a fist and flipped him off. In return, Robert jutted his tongue out.

You tried holding back from laughing, but the stifled sound came out as a weird, fart-like noise. Betsy turned her head, blinking, and then walked a bit farther from you as if disgusted.

Silly as it was, things like this always made you feel like some sort partners in crime, and it had been a while since you had this kind of Valentine. It had been a while since you had any Valentine at all. Betsy was slowly but surely improving, things were looking up, and everything else remained as it was: inconveniences.

Moments like these never failed to make you feel like you’d been dreaming, and when you finally left Val’s bedroom, both you and Robert were smiling like idiots.

Alright, then. Time to take something for your muscles and start working.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically Betsy became a bit hysterical; the story painted it as separation anxiety but I kept it vague enough to just be a general fear.
> 
> The story definitely went to places beyond my initial expertise, and I can say that the research for this chapter goes from last year. Why can't you just have a nice dinner or something *clenches fist*
> 
> Next up, pillow forts and steaming lunches. And will I ever write a smut for this day? WHO KNOWS.

**Author's Note:**

> I had edited it so many times everything started to blur, so if you found any inconsistencies, do tell me *faints*


End file.
